































































THE EARL OF ROSSVILLE HALL 




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THE EARL 

OF 

ROSSVILLE HALL 



LADY L. PINKSTON 

M 


New York and Washington 
THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
1906 


LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
TwoCootes Received 

JUL 7 1906 



Copyright, 1906 

BY LADY L. PINKSTON 



CHAPTER I 

It was noon at Rossville Hall, the day the 
eighteenth of May. The old master of the Hall had 
died only a few days since and his vast inheritance 
had descended to his nephew Claude, who was his 
only known relative at the time of his death. His 
son Adrian had disappeared when he was only six 
years of age. It was supposed that he had been 
stolen. 

The great bell had just sounded the hour for din- 
ner when a young girl of perhaps seventeen ran up 
the steps, rang the doorbell and handed her card to 
the servant who answered the summons. She was a 
beautiful girl, with large blue eyes and golden hair. 
She was the only daughter of her widowed mother, 
who had managed to give her daughter a good edu- 
cation in music. The daughter now provided for 
her mother and little brother by teaching music. 
But she had lost all her pupils, and Kenton, her 
brother, was very ill, and she had only a little money. 

The servant now returned and ushered her into 
the drawing-room of Rossville Hall. Lord Claude 
arose to meet her. 

“Miss Estelle Lorrimer, I presume.” 

“You must pardon me, Lord Ross,” she said, hesi- 
tatingly, “but — I — I have come to ask a favor of 
you. My little brother is very sick. I have tried at 
the house of our nearest neighbor, Mr. Howard, and 
he is away on business, and as you were the next 
nearest, I — I have come to see if you will let one of 


6 


THE) E)ARL Otf ROSSVILLE) HALL 


your servants go for the doctor. I am sorry to 
trouble you, but I am in great need of help.” 

“Oh, that is nothing,” he replied. “I will be 
pleased to be of any assistance that I am able. Will 
you not be seated?” 

“No, thank you,” she said, “I must go now; and 
I thank you for your kindness. I hope some day I 
can repay you.” 

“Do you live far from here?” he asked. 

“Oh, no, just a short distance. I must go. Good- 
day, Lord Ross.” 

“Good-day, Mis s Lorrimer. I will probably call 
tomorrow afternoon and see your brother.” 

“We would be very glad to see you,” she said, as 
she left the room. 

“What a pretty little girl!” ejaculated the Earl. 
“Such eyes !” 

Estelle quietly, thoughtfully walked toward the 
little white cottage in which she lived. When she 
reached home she found the little boy no better; she 
told her mother of the Earl’s kindness. 

Lord Ross had been a poor young man and could 
well appreciate the wealth he had fallen heir to. His 
father was a younger brother of the late Earl, and 
received a very small share of his father’s riches. 
He died when Claude was quite a child, but the boy 
and his mother had struggled on until two years pre- 
vious, when his mother died. After his mother’s 
death he had gone to Italy to* study painting and 
had succeeded very well. One day he received a 
telegram that his uncle was ill, perhaps dying. He 
hastened back to England, only to learn that his 


THE) E)ARI, OD ROSSVIDDD HAU, 7 

uncle was dead and he was now sole heir to his 
property. 

Claude was a finely proportioned, broad-shoul- 
dered, handsome man, and the white brow, over 
which the dark brown hair waved, was broad and in- 
tellectual. Was it any wonder that Essie Lorrimer 
was waiting impatiently for the time when she would 
see this young man ? But all the while she was say- 
ing to herself, “Why should I be thinking of him, 
when he is a great man, and I am only a poor 
widow’s daughter toiling for my bread ?” 

“I wish,” he was thinking, “I wish she had asked 
some other favor of me. I should like to obey her.” 

He glanced at his watch and saw that it was three 
o’clock. “Time’s up at last and I can go. How for- 
tunate — for me — that her brother is sick. I told her 
I was going to see her brother, but I think I am 
more anxious to see her than her brother.” He 
ordered his carriage, and soon reached Mrs. Lor- 
rimer’s cottage. It was a quaint little place, with 
vines and climbing roses almost covering the house. 
Essie — as every one called her — was looking her 
best, in a simple muslin dress, making a very fair 
picture as she stood by the window. If he had 
thought her charming the day before, he thought her 
more when he saw her at the window. He was met 
at the door by Essie, who seemed glad to see him, 
and ushered him into the little parlor. 

“I hope your brother is better, Miss Lorrimer,” 
he said, on taking a seat by a window that opened 
out into the flower garden. 

“He is better, thank you,” she replied, with such a 


8 


THE) E)ART OT ROSSVII.TE: hatt 


pretty smile that the Earl quite forgot he had come 
to visit the sick boy. 

“Do you know, Miss Lorrimer,” he said, “you 
remind me very much of the only sister I ever had. 
Your eyes are the same as hers, and you have a 
look about you that some way reminds me of her.” 

“You say the only sister you ever had — is she 
dead?” she asked. 

“Yes, she has been dead for many years — long 
years they have seemed to me. She was older than 
I by eight or ten years, and I loved her very much. 
She was very delicate and when she was sixteen she 
began to fail rapidly and within a year she was 
dead. And then in one short year my father died, 
and mother and I were left alone. We were very 
sad and we were poor and I was too small to be of 
much help to her; but we managed to live until I 
was large enough to work and we lived very happily 
then until God called my dear mother, and then I 
was left alone.” 

There were tears in the young Lord's eyes when 
he ceased speaking. 

“Yours has been a sad life, my Lord,” she re- 
marked sympathetically. 

“Sad, indeed,” he answered. 

“We will go in and see my brother now if you 
wish,” she said. 

Kenton was delighted with the Earl and begged 
him to come see him again tomorrow. 

“I wish you could come every day,” he said. 

“Perhaps I can,” the Earl replied, laughing. 

He would not own to himself he was in love. He 


THE) EARIy Otf ROSSVIIylyE) HAITv 


9 


reasoned that he only liked Essie because she re- 
minded him of his sister. He thought Mrs. Lorri- 
mer an agreeable woman, but nothing to compare 
with her golden-haired daughter. They were poor 
people, and he was an earl, but he had been poor 
and knew it was a misfortune not a fault. So* the 
days passed and May with its beautiful flowers and 
sunshine passed to the balmy month of June. 

One day in the first week of June the Earl and 
Essie were in the flower garden gathering roses, 
and he was telling her of a ball he was going to at- 
tend that night at Lady Merryington’s. 

“It will be my first ball, but I do not look forward 
to it with very much pleasure. I fear I will never 
make much of a society man. I have never had any 
desire for balls especially, but of course I must go 
to this one.” 

“Well, I think I should like them very much,” 
Essie replied. “Although I have never been to a 
ball, I do love to dance. I should think it would 
be almost like a fairyland among all the flowers and 
diamonds, and fair ladies. I suppose rich people 
are very happy — I should think they ought to be.” 

“Perhaps they should be — or at least some of 
them should,” he replied. “Of course the rich have 
their troubles as well as the poor. Now, for in- 
stance, I am what the world calls rich and I have 
lost all the ones I loved.” 

“Yes,” she said. “And now perhaps your life 
will all be sunshine. ’Tis a long road that never 
turns, and I am sure there has been a great turn in 
your life.” 


IO 


TH£ DARIv OF ROSSVIUvF HAU, 


“And may be many more,” he replied. 

“But perhaps they will be pleasant turns like the 
last.” 

“There is one very pleasant change that I should 
like very much,” he said. 

“And what is that?” 

“I will tell you that some day but not now.” 

“What could he mean?” she asked herself. Could 
it be that he was in love with some girl and was 
thinking of bringing a bride to Rossville Hall? 
Why did her heart ache so at the thought of this? 
The thought of his not coming any more filled her 
heart with pain. He had not seemed to her as a rich 
stranger, but as one she had known all her life. 
These were her thoughts, but she only said, 

“My Lord, I trust that you may receive all you 
hope for.” 

“Do you really hope I may? As long as you talk 
that way, I will have some hope.” 

He was on the point of telling her how he loved 
her and that it was her love he hoped for most of 
anything, but thought best not to be in such haste. 

At this moment Kenton called to them that he was 
getting very impatient waiting for the flowers they 
had promised to bring him. Thus admonished they 
entered the house. 

When the Earl had gone, Essie began to ponder 
upon what he had said. What had she to do with 
the “change” he so much desired? That he should 
say if she really wished it he had some hope, puzzled 
her. Could it be that he had reference to* herself? 
No, it could not be that. And yet what could she 


TH£ EjARIy OF ROSSVIFIvF HAIJ, 


II 


have to do with any one else that was anything to 
him? 

“What are you thinking of, Essie ?” Kenton 
asked. “I do believe the Earl has been making love 
to you.” 

Essie blushed and smiled and said, 

“Why, brother, how can you talk so ?” 

“Oh, I know he has now. I thought it a moment 
ago, but I know it since you blushed so.” 

“Well, I can’t tell why I blushed, but he certainly 
has not made love to me,” she replied. 


CHAPTER II 


While Lord Ross was enjoying himself at Mrs. 
Lorrimer’s, he had no idea of the snares that were 
being laid by the Misses Merryington. 

“Now, Olivia,” said Gertrude, “you need not be 
planning what you are going to say to the Earl to 
captivate him; for I mean to win him myself. I 
am older than you, and I mean to win him.” 

“And I say, Gertrude, I mean to win him. It is 
a game of chance for either of us,” Olivia replied. 
“And the one who plays her cards the better shall 
be the winner.” 

“Now, girls, what are you quarreling about?” 
asked Lady Merryington as she entered the room. 

“Oh, mamma,” said Gertrude, “we were talking 
of Lord Ross. Olivia says she means to marry him 
and I mean to win him too, and as I am the elder 
I think Olivia should submit, don't you ?” 

“Quarreling about Lord Ross! Why, girls, I 
should think you would feel ashamed, quarreling 
about some one who will probably not give either 
of you a second thought. If I were you I think I 
would wait and see which he prefers. Perhaps he 
will not like either of you, and I am sure if he could 
hear you he would not.” 

Gertrude and Olivia were two very obstinate, con- 
tentious girls, and were forever quarreling over little 
nothings. Gertrude was now twenty-three years old 
and Olivia twenty-one, and they were each on the 
lookout for a rich husband. 


TH£ BARI, OF ROSSVIUvF HAIA, 


13 


When the young Earl of Rossville Hall came to 
his estate what should they both do but determine 
to win him at any cost. As the poor artist, Claude 
Ross, he would have been nothing to them ; as Lord 
Ross of Rossville Hall he was a great catch. 

The evening of the ball came. As each guest en- 
tered the drawing room the two girls watched 
eagerly, hoping it might be the Earl of Rossville 
Hall. It was rather late before he came, and Lady 
Merryington received him with an amiable smile. 

“And so this is Lord Ross/’ she said, “the young 
master of the Hall. I have heard so much of you 
that I have been anxious to meet you, and shall be 
so glad to have my friends meet you.” 

“My dear Lady Merryington, you do me too 
much honor,” he replied. 

At this moment Gertrude came up to her mother 
— quite by accident. 

“Ah,” said Lady Merryington, “allow me, Lord 
Ross, to introduce you to my daughter Gertrude. 
Gertrude, this is Lord Ross.” 

“Very happy to meet you, Miss Merryington; 
very glad indeed,” as he bowed low over the little 
hand which she held out. 

Olivia was at the other end of the room, talking 
with Sir Reginald Stockwell. She appeared to be 
very deeply interested in what he was saying about 
some photographs which they were looking at. But 
she was not so interested as she seemed for she had 
seen her mother introduce Lord Ross to her sister, 
and she knew if Gertrude could she would keep him 
at her side all the evening. She was revolving in 


14 


TH£ JtARh 0£ ROSSVIIJ,£ HAU, 


her mind some scheme by which she might be able 
to entice him away from her sister. While Olivia 
was busy working out her plan Gertrude was mak- 
ing good use of her time. While Lord Ross seemed 
to be enjoying and believing all she appeared to be, 
he was thinking, “Oh! yes, Miss Gertrude, you 
think your little plan is succeeding ! As if I couldn’t 
tell by those fiery black eyes what lies in your heart ! 
You think you can put on your sweetest smile and 
look amiable and good, but I can see through your 
little ruse.” 

Olivia’s scheme was to give Sir Reginald the im- 
pression that Gertrude was an excellent musician. 
When he heard this, of course he said that he must 
hear her sing and play. So going over to Gertrude, 
Olivia introduced Sir Reginald and Gertrude in her 
turn introduced Lord Ross. The latter was more 
favorably impressed with Olivia than he had been 
with her sister, but still he fancied she was artful 
and deceitful, too. 

Sir Reginald led Gertrude to the piano, and said, 
“Now, Miss Gertrude, give us your favorite.” 

“Oh, I have no favorite,” she jerked out. It 
could plainly be seen that she was annoyed at 
Olivia’s skilful maneuver. However, she played, 
but played as if her mind was not on what she was 
playing, and Sir Reginald concluded she was not 
such an expert, after all. 

“Do let us go in and watch the dancers,” she said, 
peevishly. 

“I will if you will dance with me,” he said. 

She assented, and they went into the ball room. 


THE) E)ARIy OT ROSSVITIvE: HATT 


15 


Meanwhile, Lord Ross and Olivia had seated 
themselves on a sofa, where they were for more 
than an hour, then Lady Merryington came up to 
introduce Lord Ross to some of the other guests. 
And Olivia, knowing it to be useless to look angry 
as Gertrude had done, kept her sweetest smile. 

Lord Ross would not dance and after meeting 
several of the young ladies, he joined some of the 
other gentlemen to have a quiet smoke. He thought 
of little Essie Lorrimer and wished he was with her 
in the quiet little cottage. He did not care for all 
this foolishness and he compared Essie with all the 
society belles and was glad she was not like them. 
When he returned to the drawing room, he came 
upon Lady Merryington just starting to- see “where 
he had been in hiding.” 

“Ah, Lady Merryington,” he said, “you are 
the one above all others whom I was wishing to 
meet here. Let us go into the conservatory. I am 
very fond of flowers and I am sure you have some 
choice ones.” 

“By all means I will go,” she said. “I feel flat- 
tered that you should prefer going with me to some 
of the young ladies.” 

“Why, Lady Merryington,” he said, “I think I 
prefer the elder ladies always to younger ones, that 
is except to one of the younger ones.” 

“May I ask,” said her ladyship, “who the for- 
tunate lady is? It is surely Miss Edith Greyson. 
I do think she is such a lovable girl.” 

She did not think anything of the kind, but she 


1 6 THE) SARI, 01? R0SSVIU<E HAU, 

thought perhaps it was one of her own daughters 
and she could make him tell her by saying this. 

“No,” he replied, “I have not met the lady here 
to-night. She is not here, but I do not mind telling 
you who she is. Her name is Essie Lorrimer, and 
she is the dearest and sweetest girl I have ever met.” 

“Oh!” ejaculated Lady Merryington, “your 
Lordship praises this young lady very highly.” 

“She is worthy of all the praise I can give her,” 
he said, earnestly. “By the way,” he added, “I 
would like one of these lilies very much.” 

“Certainly,” she answered. 

He plucked the lily, thinking he would carry it to 
Essie and tell her that it came from a real ball and 
that it was the only thing he saw there that com- 
pared with her; that among all those grand ladies 
he was not happy, for he could not keep his mind 
from one certain little girl. 

“I am sorry, your Lordship,” said Lady Merry- 
ington, “there will be so many disappointed young 
ladies in the country. I am sure by the many ad- 
miring glances I have seen to-night that there will 
be more than one disappointed young lady when 
they find you are engaged.” 

“Oh, I am not engaged yet,” he said, with a 
slight smile, “but it will not be any fault of mine if 
I am not very soon.” v 

“And suppose some one else has already won this 
prize,” she said. 

“Oh, I don't think there's any probability of that,” 
he said. “She is quite young, only a little past sev- 
enteen, I think.” 


THE) BARI. ROSSVIIvIvEj HAI.lv 1 7 

They now returned to the drawing room, and 
after bidding his hostess good-night he sprang in 
his carriage and was driven rapidly home. But 
those words of Lady Merryington’s kept ringing in 
his ear. What if some one else had already won 
this great prize? Indeed, what if they had? He 
had not thought of this. What if she was young? 
Younger people than she had married. Why, his 
mother had married before she was as old as Essie. 
Before he closed his eyes in sleep he made up his 
mind to ask her to be his wife the next day. If she 
refused he would go away and never trouble her any 
more. But if she did not refuse, oh, yes, if she did 
not refuse, then he would be the happiest man on 
earth. What a lovely little mistress she would 
make for his home! He fancied he could see her 
about the house — his wife. 

“IBs just as I thought you would do, Olivia,” said 
Gertrude the next morning after the ball. “You 
always manage to spoil everything in your own 
good time! What did you bring that blundering 
Sir Reginald to me for? You did it just to get 
Lord Ross yourself.” 

“Well, of course, Gertrude. I know that’s what 
I did it for. Did you suppose that I intended sitting 
there with Sir Reginald when I could put him off 
on you, and secure the Earl? No indeed, I had no 
such an idea. I congratulate myself on being so 
kind as to let you talk with Sir Reginald. Why, 
do you suppose he would have looked at you, if you 
had not been my sister? I made quite an impres- 


1 8 TH£ sari, os ROSSVISSS HASS 

sion on Sir Reginald and I am sure Lord Ross likes 
me better than he does you.” 

Olivia felt better after she had unburdened her 
mind of all she meant to* make her sister believe. 
It was her greatest delight to vex her sister and she 
knew the way she had commenced was the quickest 
way to go about it. 

“Yes, I believe all that rubbish you are telling,” 
Gertrude snapped. “Maybe you don’t know what 
the Earl said about you.” 

“No, I do not,” Olivia replied. “But I would 
like so much to know, for I am sure it was some- 
thing very nice. Do please tell me, my dear sister, 
and then I’ll tell you what he said about you.” 

Now, Lord Ross had not said anything to Ger- 
trude about Olivia. She simply wanted to make her 
think so, but the thought came to her that she would 
tell a falsehood to make her think the Earl was not 
so misled as she believed him to be. 

“Oh, yes,” said Gertrude, “you can get so sweet 
around me when you want to find out something! 
If you had any idea what it was you would not be 
so anxious to know. He only wanted to know who 
that old-maidish-looking girl was? I tried to look 
shocked and answered, ‘Why, that’s my sister.’ He 
said he was so sorry he had said anything to hurt 
me, but he really could not help saying something. 
Now what was it, pray, that he had the goodness 
to say about me?” 

But Olivia was too angry to reply. At this mo- 
ment Lady Merryington came into the room and 
inquired the cause of Olivia’s tears. Gertrude in- 


The: E)ARIv OT ROSSVIIvIvE: HATT 


19 


formed her, and then said, “So you see, mamma, I 
have succeeded in winning the prize, when Olivia 
was so sure she had.” 

“Not so fast, my dear,” said her ladyship. “You 
have not won him yet. Nor do I think you are 
liable to. He is in love with that Lorrimer girl. 
Lady Reyford was telling me last evening that 
when she went riding in the afternoon she saw Lord 
Ross at the Lorrimer cottage almost every time she 
passed, and we were wondering if he really meant 
to marry the girl or if he was only going there to 
amuse himself, when — ” 

But Gertrude did not give her time to finish the 
sentence. 

“Oh, of course, he doesn't mean to marry her. 
The very idea of a lord marrying a pauper! Of 
course he is only going there to amuse himself. I 
never did have a very high opinion of that girl and 
now I have a poorer one than ever. For my part, 
I don't believe Lord Ross goes there. Lady Rey- 
ford gets the reputation of not telling the truth 
every time she speaks and I don't believe a word of 
it. It is something of her own manufacture.” 

“Don't be in so much haste with what you have 
to say, Gertrude,” said the mother. “Wait and let 
me finish what I have to say.” 

Then she proceeded to tell her what Lord Ross 
had said the evening previous. Gertrude was more 
angry than ever, but her sister came to her aid. 

“Oh, mamma, you know he could not mean all 
that! He only told you that to keep people from 
talking. He can't possibly love that girl.” 


20 


THE) E)ARL, OH ROSSVITTS HATH 


“Of course he does not,” said Gertrude. 

“Well, perhaps he does not,” Lady Merryington 
continued, “but he did look so earnest in what he 
said.” 

“Oh, yes, and he looked earnest in what he was 
saying to me, too,” said Olivia, “and then look what 
he had been saying about me. For my part I hate 
Lord Ross and that doll-baby-looking Essie Lorri- 
mer, too.” 

“Oh,” said Gertrude, “don’t get so angry. I can’t 
say that I have any love for the girl, but I don’t 
blame Lord Ross. Of course I can’t expect you to 
like the Earl after what he said about you, but so 
much the better for me. I will stand a better chance 
for winning him than ever.” 

“You forget the Lorrimer girl, who stands a bet- 
ter chance than either of you,” said Lady Merry- 
ington. 

“Oh, she is not worth the remembering,” said 
Gertrude. 

“I’ll give my interest in the Earl to you, Ger- 
trude,” said Olivia. “I mean to win Sir Reginald.” 

“Now there’s a dear good girl,” said Gertrude, 
who was thinking how lucky she had been in think- 
ing of such a good scheme to prevent Olivia’s inter- 
fering with her. 


CHAPTER HI 


Lord Ross went to see Essie that evening and it 
seemed to him that he had never seen her looking so 
well. She asked him how he enjoyed the ball and 
he told her about the music and the dancing, the two 
Merryington girls, and the conservatory and how he 
knew she would have enjoyed it all. Then he gave 
her the lily which he had plucked purposely for her, 
telling her what he had meant to tell her, — that 
among all that throng the lily was all he could find 
that would in any way compare with her. She 
looked a little surprised at this, but when he told 
her that in all that gaiety he was not happy, because 
a certain little face haunted him, her surprise was 
very great. 

“Do you know, Essie, dear, the only time I am 
happy is when I am with you. Yes, I am going to 
call you Essie. I like the name Essie. It suits the 
little girl that bears it. Essie, have you not guessed 
my secret, — can you not guess how well I love you ?” 

“Lord Ross,” she said, “do not trifle with me 
in this way. I can not bear it.” 

“Trifle with you, my darling? I love you far too 
well for that. Do not call me Lord Ross — call me 
Claude. Trifle with you? Why, I have come on 
purpose to ask you to be my wife. Do you love me, 
Essie, dear? Can you love me? Or is it possible 
your heart is another’s? Without you I will be 
miserable, I would not care to live, for what would 
life be to me without you? Speak out, darling,” 


22 


the: s art OT ROSSVIIvTE: HALT 


he said. “If you can not love me, it is better to tell 
me so, than to be in this dread uncertainty. If you 
do not love me I will go away and never trouble you 
any more.” 

Had she heard aright? Was it possible that the 
Earl loved her — wished to make her his wife? Did 
she love him? Then came the thoughts of what 
comfort her mother could live in if she should marry 
the Earl; but then she must not think of that, she 
must think only of love — did she love him? 

“Speak out, Essie,” said the Earl, “this uncer- 
tainty is hard to bear. If you do not love me, say 
you do not and Til gO' away from old England.” 

“Oh, do not go away,” she said, “give me time 
to think.” 

“Answer me now, dearest,” he pleaded. “Your 
heart tells you if you love me, does it not?” 

“Oh, Claude, I have never been in love. I can 
not tell whether I love you or not.” 

He thought now that she surely did not love him, 
or she would know it. 

“Well, Essie,” he said, “I will tell you how I feel 
and if you feel the same I think you love me. I am 
happier when I am with you than with any one else 
in the world, — I am happy only when I am by your 
side. I know that without you I can never be happy. 
When I hear your name a thrill passes over me. No 
one else’s name ever causes me to feel so. I think 
you have the fairest, sweetest face I have ever 
looked upon. Oh, Essie, I cannot explain my love. 
It is impossible to tell you how I feel. I only know 
I love you, and only you. I love you more than all 


THE EARE OE ROSSVIEEE HATE 


23 


the world, better than my own life; and darling, if 
you loved me, your heart would tell you so.” 

“Well, I do love you then,” she said, “for I am 
sure I have been happier since I met you. I know 
I have never met any one so handsome as you ; my 
happiest hours are spent with you. When you are 
away from me I think of you all day and I dream of 
you at night. I do love you, but I had never thought 
of such a thing as your loving me. I did not think 
a man like you could ever love a poor working girl 
like me.” 

“Essie,” he said, “how could you judge me so 
cruelly? Do you think you really love me, dear? 
Do you love me well enough to marry me, for the 
dearest wish of my life is to make you my wife.” 

“If you are willing to take me with all my faults,” 
she said, “I will be your wife.” 

“Thank God!” he said, as he clasped both her 
hands. “My own little one, I can hardly realize 
my great happiness. If I am willing to take you 
with all your faults ?” said he. “I could never find 
a more perfect, a sweeter, dearer girl if I were to 
search the wide world over. Do you know, my 
darling, I was comparing you with those girls 
whom I met at the ball, and I just thought of the 
great difference between my little Essie and them. 
You were not mine then, but you are now, thanks 
to your tender little heart. Essie dear, how can 
you really love me?” 

“Why, Claude, I wonder how you can love me.” 

“Well, my dear, I can tell you very soon how I 


24 


THE) E)ARIy OF ROSSVITTE) HAUv 


can love you. It is because you are as pure and 
sweet as a lily and as guileless as an angel.” 

“Oh, you are exaggerating now, Fm afraid,” she 
said, playfully. 

“I don't think I am,” he answered. “Now let us 
go and tell your mother — our mother,” he said. 

“Oh, no,” she replied, “let's don't. I want to tell 
her first. You can wait until the next time you 
come.” 

“Any way to please you, little sweetheart; but do 
you suppose your mother will sanction our mar- 
riage?” he asked, lover-like always in doubt and 
dread about something. 

“That is something I can not tell,” Essie replied. 
“I know she will hate to give me up, but I don't 
think she will object when she finds that it concerns 
my happiness. She is a dear, good mother, Claude, 
and I love her very much and leaving her is all I 
dread.” 

“But there is no need of your leaving her, Essie. 
She will be as welcome to come and live at the 
manor as my own mother would.” 

“Claude, you are so good,” Essie replied, “but I 
am not so sure that she will do that; she is very 
proud, if she is poor.” 

“But would she not do this if she knew you de- 
sired her to?” he asked. 

“I don't know, but I don't much think she would, 
for there is Kenton. He will have to< stay wherever 
mamma does.” 

“Well, there is room for him, too.” 


the: sari, OS ROSSVITTS HATS 


25 


“Yes, but mamma will not go, I am sure,” Essie 
replied. 

“How old is Kenton ?” he thoughtfully asked. 

“He is nearly sixteen/’ said Essie, “old enough 
to think he will soon be a man.” 

“Kenton is a very bright, interesting boy. I am 
very fond of him. I can’t help remembering that it 
was through him I met you,” he said. “Now, if he 
had not taken it in his head to get sick, I would as 
likely as not never have met you.” 

“And been better off perhaps,” Essie replied, 
laughing. 

“Now there is where you and I differ,” he said. 
“I will not allow my little girl to be belittled in my 
hearing. If I had never met you, most likely I 
would have been an old bachelor, a very cross old 
bachelor ; and I know I would not have been as well 
off as I am now, and will be when you are my wife. 
Essie, you can’t have any idea how lonely I used to 
be before I met you, with no relatives in the world 
that I know of. So you think I would have been 
better off to have remained that way. If you think 
that way, I do not.” 

“Oh, dear, I don’t really think like that,” Essie 
replied. “I was only thinking what a burden I will 
be on your hands.” 

“Don’t talk that way, darling — you could not be a 
burden. Speaking of burdens, just think what a 
burden would be on my mind now if you had re- 
fused me.” 

“Oh, you could have found some one else if I had 


26 


the: kart ok rossvittk hatt 


refused you — some one whom you would have liked 
better/’ she said. 

“No, I could not have found any one in all the 
world so sweet and lovable as you.” 

“Well, I suppose I must let you have it your own 
way,” she replied, “as I can’t make you believe 
otherwise.” 

“No, you can’t make me believe any other way.” 
It was with great reluctance that he went home, and 
it seemed to him that he trod on air. He reached the 
hall in a very few minutes and the servants stared 
at him. They did not know what to make of his 
looking so happy, when he had always looked so 
sad. 

“The Earl has surely heard some good news,” 
said the housekeeper, “he looks as if he was too 
happy to live ! I don’t know what to make of it.” 

But if she had asked him he would very easily 
have told her, for he did not care if the whole world 
knew of his love. 

“Oh, mamma,” said Essie, after Lord Ross had 
gone, “what do you suppose? Lord Ross has asked 
me to be his wife, and I accepted him.” 

“Lord Ross has asked you to be his wife,” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Lorrimer, in consternation, “and did 
you accept him?” 

“Why, mamma, I just told you I accepted him.” 

Her mother had only heard the first part of what 
she said, — she was so surprised she did not hear 
the rest. 

“Why, I thought Lord Ross was visiting Kenton. 
I had not the least suspicion that he was in love with 


the) e)art ot rossvitte) hatt 


27 


you, — but then I did think something strange when 
he came to-day and did not even come in Kenton’s 
room. And you accepted him? Why, Essie, you 
have not known him two months and have promised 
to marry him.” 

“Well, mamma dear, it is the very first time I had 
thought about not knowing him any longer, and I 
am sure he did not think of it either. But what dif- 
ference does that make, mamma? I know he is a 
good true man and I know he loves me and oh, 
mamma, I love him too. I could not love him more 
if I had known him two years. You are not going 
to oppose our marriage, are you, mamma dear? I 
am sure God intended us for each other.” 

“No, Essie, I will not oppose your marriage; but 
are you sure, very sure you love each other? Not 
knowing each other any longer, you may think you 
love when you do not.” 

“Yes, mamma, I am very sure I love him, and if 
you had heard him telling me how he loved me, I 
don’t think you would doubt it.” 

“Well, Essie, I do think you should have con- 
sulted me in the matter. And he went off and did 
not say anything to* me, he might at least have told 
me.” 

“Oh, mamma, don’t blame Claude with that. 
He wanted to tell you and I would not let him. I 
told him I wanted to tell you myself. I wanted to 
see if you thought me a very bad little girl.” 

“Yes indeed. I think you are a very bad little girl 
to be in love all this time and not tell your mother, 
but I always said I would let you choose your own 


28 


THE) 3ARI, OF ROSSVIFIvF HAIJ, 


husband. I do hate to see people who make matches 
for their children without any regard to how they 
feel about it, just to get them married off. As luck 
would have it, I have no room for complaint, as my 
little girl has made an excellent choice. I think Lord 
Ross a most agreeable young man and honorable 
gentleman.” 

“I am very glad you like Claude so well, mam- 
ma,” Essie replied, “for I am sure if you did not I 
could not be so happy. I know you will never have 
cause to regret it.” 

“Have you set the day?” Mrs. Lorrimer asked. 

“No,” said Essie, “we have not, but I am sure 
Claude will not be willing to wait very long; but I 
don’t care to marry for a year or two' yet.” 

“Yes, Essie, I think you are right about that. 
You are very young, too young to be engaged, much 
less to be married.” 

“Well, mamma, I don’t care to marry for a year 
or two, but I shall not oppose Claude. If he is will- 
ing to wait, I had rather; but if he wishes to be 
married very soon, I shall do so to please him ; for I 
mean to do as he wishes. He is older than I, and 
knows what is best better than I.” 

“Yes, Essie, if you always try to please him be- 
fore any one else, you will do> the right thing, and 
I am sure he will love you the better for it.” 

“Well that is just what I mean to do, mamma, 
and I believe Claude will be the same by me. He is 
always talking of his mother and sister, and I have 
heard it said, that a man would be by wife, as he is 
by his mother and sister.” 


The: E)ARIv 0 £ ROSSVIIvIvE HATT 


29 


Mrs. Lorrimer now went in and told Kenton the 
news. “And Essie is going to marry Lord Ross,” 
he said, after the first exclamations of surprise were 
over. “Won’t it be jolly, mother, to have an earl 
for a brother-in-law, and to have people say, ‘There 
goes the brother of the Countess of Rossville !’ Who 
would have thought that Essie would ever have been 
a countess.” 

Here Essie came into the room, and Kenton ex- 
claimed, “Here comes the Countess of Rossville! 
Good evening, Lady Ross, how is your ladyship this 
evening ?” 

Essie blushed and answered, “Oh! Kenton, you 
little rogue, don’t be so vexatious. You can’t tease 
me about Lord Ross, you are too fond of him your- 
self.” 

“Oh! I know I am fond of him. A boy should 
be fond of his future brother-in-law, but I’m not 
near so fond of him as you are.” 

“Well, I didn’t mean to say that,” Essie replied. 
“I know you are not so fond of him as I am, for I 
love him.” 

“That’s nothing new either,” Kenton replied. 
“Didn’t I know that a month ago, the way you 
would stand by the window until you saw him com- 
ing, then blush furiously t and say, ‘Kenton, he is 
coming,’ as if he was coming to see me, when he 
was visiting you all the time! That was a good 
excuse for him though. I don’t blame him for 
that, at all. If you wasn’t my sister and I was a 
little older, I think I would like you to have a 
little sick brother, for me to visit too. I think you 


30 


THE DARE OE ROSSVIEEE HAEE 


are the sweetest little sister in the world, and if 
ever I marry, I want my wife to be just like you, 
with blue eyes and golden hair and rosy cheeks; ” 

“Well, Kenton, I don’t think golden hair is near 
so pretty as brown, or blue eyes as lovely as hazel.” 

“Yes, and the reason is that Lord Ross has brown 
hair and hazel eyes.” 

“Well I won’t dispute that,” she said. “Perhaps 
that is the reason. You are a darling little brother 
and I hope you will continue thinking so much of 
Lord Ross,” she said, and rising, left the room and 
went out to a shady little nook in the flower garden, 
where she could be alone with the thoughts of her 
lover. 


CHAPTER IV 


“Essie dear, Pm so glad to be with you again,” 
said Lord Ross the next evening. “It seems as 
though a month had elapsed since I left my little 
Essie, yet it was only last evening. But just to 
think of the time when I will never have to leave 
you. Have you told your mother?” 

“Yes, I have told her.” 

“And what did she say about it, Essie dear?” 

“She said that she thought I was a very bad girl 
to be in love all this time and not tell my mother. 
I did not tell her I only found that I was in love 
yesterday for fear she would think I did not know 
what love is. But if I have not known long, I 
am very sure I know now ; and she said she thought 
you should have told her. But I told her not to 
blame you for that, for I was the cause of it.” 

“Just like my little Essie, to take all the blame on 
herself. But how is Kenton, Essie? I was so 
selfishly happy yesterday that I did not think of 
asking about the boy.” 

“Kenton is ever so much better,” Essie replied. 
“He is so much improved that he is able to sit up 
today. He is awfully glad to be up again after 
such a long illness, and I am glad for him. He was 
so good and patient all along. I don’t think I could 
bear to be ill as long as Kenton was, Fm sure I 
should die.” 

“Oh! don’t talk of dying, dear,” he said. “It 


32 


THE) E)ART 0£ ROSSVITIvE) HATT 


makes me feel bad, for if I should lose you, I think I 
would die too.” 

“Oh ! I am not going to die for a while yet, nor 
am I ill,” Essie replied, amused at her lover’s 
gloomy foreboding. “And do let us change the 
subject to something more pleasant.” 

“Well if you wish to change the subject, — most 
pleasant, I suppose we must talk about you,” he 
said, “for the most pleasant thoughts I remember 
having were about you.” 

“You are a flatterer,” she said, “a flatterer of the 
worst kind.” 

“No, I do not flatter,” he said. “I could not 
flatter you, if I wished to, for I can say nothing 
good about you except what is true.” 

“Love is blind, they say,” Essie replied, “and I 
think it must be true, or you could not think me all 
you say you do.” 

“Oh ! don’t talk so, Essie. It is I who am the un- 
worthy one.” 

After a while Essie said, “Claude, mamma re- 
ceived a letter from papa’s brother this morning, 
and he is coming to spend a fortnight with us before 
starting for the East Indies, where, he says, he 
means to< go and get rich. I have never seen this 
old uncle of mine, but I am sure from the tone of 
his letter I shall like him.” 

“And I shall be glad to meet him, because he is a 
relative of yours. I am sure I shall like him,” Lord 
Ross replied. 

“I hope you will like him,” she said, “for I am 


the: sart of rossvitle: hau, 33 

sure he will like you. Mamma says he has traveled 
in almost every country on the globe. I am sure it 
will be entertaining to hear him tell of his adven- 
tures in all those strange lands/’ 

“When is he to arrive?” he asked. 

“He will be here on the afternoon train to-mor- 
row. He has just returned from a trip to America. 
That is one place I have always longed to visit,” she 
said. 

“And you shall surely have your wish fulfilled, 
when you become my wife. And now, dearest, let 
us name the day. When shall our wedding take 
place?” 

“Well, if I must decide that question,” she re- 
plied, “I will say two years from the twenty-fifth of 
next month, which is my birthday.” 

“What a coincidence! That is my birthday 
too,” he said. “But, Essie dear, I don’t want to 
wait so long. Just to think, what a dreadfully long 
time that will be.” 

“Well, I will not oppose you, Claude. If you 
wish to be married right away I am willing, any- 
thing to please you. But oh ! Claude, just to think 
how young I am, I am scarcely more than a child.” 

“You will be eighteen your next birthday, and I 
will be twenty-eight. Just to think, if you should 
wait those two years you would be marrying an 
old bachelor.” 

“Well, I don’t like boys,” she said. 

“And I like little girls,” he said. “So that is the 
reason I want to be married right away, while you 
3 


34 the earl oe rossvillE hall 

* * 
are still a little girl. So I say let us be married in 
December, — say the twenty-fifth of December.” 

“I have heard it said that it is unlucky to be mar- 
ried in the Christmas holidays,” she replied. 

“Oh ! don’t be superstitious, little girl. Of course 
there is nothing in that.” 

“Well, it shall be as you say, dear,” she replied. 

“And you will be my Christmas gift,” he said joy- 
fully, “the very dearest Christmas gift on earth. 
We shall be married on Christmas day, and give a 
ball during the holidays, and my little Essie can say 
she has attended a real ball. And then we’ll gO' to 
America on our wedding tour, and you shall see 
that wonderful country you so much desire to see.” 

Essie was delighted at the picture he drew of their 
future. 

“Oh ! Claude,” she said, “you will make me love 
you too much.” 

“No, no, dear. I can’t do that. You can never 
love me so much as I do you.” 

“I don’t really see how you could love me any 
more than I do you,” she said. “For you are my 
first, nearest, truest and dearest.” 

Uncle Roger arrived in due time and was gladly 
welcomed. Mrs. Lorrimer was overjoyed to see 
him as it had been almost twenty years since they 
had seen each other. Essie and Kenton fell in love 
with him at first sight. 

“Dear Uncle Roger, why have you never visited 
us before?” Essie asked. 

“My child, this is the first time I have seen old 
England in many years. I would have come before 


THE) e:aRT OT ROSSVIUvS hatt 


35 


this if I had known you and Kenton were such dear, 
good children. I think I shall take Kenton to the 
Indies with me.” 

“Oh! Uncle Roger, do let me go,” Kenton ex- 
claimed. “Essie is going to marry Lord Ross, and 
mamma could live with her.” 

“Hush! Kenton,” Essie exclaimed, “don't be 
such a little tattler ! What will Uncle Roger think ?” 

“And you are going to marry, eh !” he said, ad- 
dressing Essie. “And a lord at that! Well, well, 
well! Little Essie is going to marry. How can 
you spare her, Flora?” he said, turning to Mrs. Lor- 
rimer. 

“I don't see how I am to spare her,” she replied, 
“but I suppose I will have to.” 

“He who marries her is a fortunate man,” said 
Uncle Roger. “I would like to see this young man, 
Essie. When will he be here again?” 

“There he is now/' Kenton exclaimed, as Lord 
Ross drove up to the little gate. 

Essie ran to meet him, telling him of her uncle's 
arrival, and what a dear old uncle Roger was, and 
how she wished he could stay with them always, all 
in one breath, before Lord Ross could say a word. 
They entered the house and Essie introduced the 
two gentlemen. After talking awhile Uncle Roger 
asked, 

“Are you a relative of Lorraine Ross, — Lorraine 
Moreland, before marriage?” 

“That was my mother's name,” Lord Ross re- 
plied. 

“Oh! can it be that you are Lorraine's son, — > 


36 the: e:ariv ot rossvitte: hatt 

little golden haired Lorraine? People often won- 
der why it is I have never married, and I will tell 
you why. I met a girl, many years ago, whom I 
loved better than all the world. She did not care 
for me, — she loved another. But she always 
treated me with the utmost kindness. That girl 
was your mother. When I first heard Kenton 
speak of you, I had no idea that you were her son. 
I read of her death in a paper in France, some years 
ago.” 

“Yes, it will soon be four years since my mother’s 
death,” Lord Ross replied, sadly. “I have often 
heard her speak of a lover she had before she mar- 
ried my father. I am sure she must have referred 
to 1 you, as she said this young man seemed to think 
more of her than any of the other girls. But she 
did not love him, and she was betrothed to my 
father then. She always looked so sad, when she 
spoke of him. I never heard her call his name.” 

Uncle Roger sat looking out of the window as if 
his mind had gone back many years. He sat so for 
a long time, without speaking. 

“That is an excellent young man, Essie,” he said, 
after Lord Ross had gone. “An excellent young 
man. I did not think to ask him if he was the only 
child of his mother. Can you tell me, Essie?” 

“Yes, uncle. She had a daughter who was older 
than Claude, but she is dead. She died when she 
was about my own age, or hardly so old.” 

Kenton now asked his mother if she was going 
to let him go with his uncle to the East Indies. 

“No, no, my child,” Mrs. Lorrimer replied. 


THE) E)ARIy Otf ROSSVITU) HAUy 3 7 

“Essie is enough for me to give up without having 
to give you up, too.” 

“But, mamma, I do want to go so much. Uncle 
Roger said he was going out there to get rich, and 
if you would only allow me to go, perhaps I would 
get rich too. Then you could live in comfort all the 
rest of your days.” 

Uncle Roger joined his entreaties with those of 
Kenton, but without success. Mrs. Lorrimer would 
not hear of his going. Kenton begged of his uncle 
to write to him, which he promised to do. 

And when the time came for Uncle Roger to go, 
it was with tearful eyes that they bade him God- 
speed. The last word Kenton spoke to him was, 
“Oh! if I only could go with you, Uncle Roger!” 
and Uncle Roger replied, “Yes, my lad, I would 
like so much for you to go, but your mother knows 
best. Always submit to your mother’s will, for I 
am sure she will never tell you anything wrong, 
and you will make a true and noble man.” So 
Uncle Roger went away and things went on at the 
cottage in the usual way. Essie grew more fond 
of her lover every day, and he waited very impa- 
tiently for their wedding day. 

* * * * 

It was the middle of October, and Uncle Roger 
had been gone more than three months. Kenton 
had not received a letter, and he told his mother he 
believed Uncle Roger did not intend to write to him. 
But he had been to the post-office to-day and re- 
ceived a letter from Uncle Roger. He could hardly 
wait until he reached home before he shouted to 
Essie, “It has come!” 


38 


the: EARIv ot rossyitte: HAIvT 


He passed the letter to Essie and she read it 
aloud to her mother. When she had finished read- 
ing it Mrs. Lorrimer exclaimed, “Poor Roger, his 
life has been very lonely! Now, Essie, see what 
love does for some people! If he had not fallen in 
love with Lorraine Moreland, perhaps he would not 
have been such a wanderer.” 

“Yes, mamma, and see how blissfully happy it 
can make some people, too.” 

“I am glad you are happy, Essie, for you may not 
always be so.” 

“True, I may not be so,” she replied, “but now I 
can see nothing but pleasure and happiness in the 
future.” 

“But, Essie, we can not always see what is com- 
ing. We do not know what our lot will be.” 

“Oh ! mamma,” Essie replied, “if Claude’s 
mother had only lived, perhaps she would have mar- 
ried Uncle Roger ! And he could have been happy 
in his old age, even if he was disappointed in his 
youth.” 

“Perhaps she would,” her mother replied. “I 
have often heard of such things, for as the saying is, 
true love will never depart. If Lorraine Moreland 
did not love your Uncle Roger, he loved her, and it 
is very probable that she would have been blessed 
with second love.” 

“Mamma, do you believe in second love? Do 
you think you could ever love again ?” 

“No, I do not think I could love again. I am 
sure I could not,” she replied. 

“Well, perhaps it would have been the same with 


THE) EART OT ROSSVITIvE: hatt 


39 


Mrs. Ross,” Essie replied. “But it might have been 
that she would have married him through pity. I 
don't think I could ever love any one else. I do 
not believe in second love. I am sure I will never 
love another than Claude.” 

“Essie, I believe Claude is all you ever think of. 
I don't believe you ever think of how lonely I will 
be without you.” 

“You won't be without me, mamma dear, for I 
mean that you shall live with us. It was Claude 
who first mentioned it. He said you would be as 
welcome to stay at the Hall as his own mother 
would be, were she living. It shows how noble and 
kind he is,, doesn't it, mamma?” 

“Yes, and I appreciate his kindness, but I shall 
never do that.” 

“Not if we both wished it very much?” she asked. 

“No. I can not if you both wish it very much, 
for there is Kenton.” 

“And Claude said there was room and welcome 
for Kenton too. Now won't you, mamma? Just 
to please me?” 

“No, I cannot,” Mrs. Lorrimer replied. “I can 
not do that. Kenton and I can stay on here at the 
cottage and still be happy. But we will miss you, 
oh so much.” 

“But you say you wish me to be happy, mamma ! 
That would make me happy, still you refuse?” 

“Yes, I refuse, Essie, because I think it best.” 

“Well, mamma, if you will persist in staying, so 
be it, but I would be so happy to have you with me 
all the time.” 


40 


THE) £ARI, OS ROSSVISSS HAU, 


“You will be so happy with Claude you will not 
miss me a great deal.” 

“I know I will be happy with Claude, but I shall 
miss you and Kenton, too, a great deal.” 

But Essie forgot her disappointment when Claude 
came that evening. 

* * * * 

Little did these happy lovers suspect what fate 
was preparing for them; little did they know that 
before another sun rose and set, the whole current 
of their lives would be changed. Let these happy 
lovers remain happy the short time that they can, 
for their happiness will soon be changed to sorrow. 

“Claude,” said Essie after a pause, “I was so 
happy to see you, I had almost forgotten to tell you 
that Kenton received a letter from Uncle Roger 
today. Uncle Roger reached the Indies safely, 
and he likes it very much. He wishes Kenton were 
with him, as he is so very lonely. I can't see why 
he has taken such a fancy to Kenton.” 

“That is very easy to account for, — he is a rela- 
tive of yours. Why ! who could help taking a fancy 
to him, or his sister either, for that matter. I am 
glad to know that Uncle Roger reached his destina- 
tion all right. I wish him great success, and hope 
he will succeed. I like him — because he loved my 
mother, and I believe him to be an honorable gentle- 
man, in the highest sense of the word.” 

“He was greatly attached to you. It shows his 
good judgment, don't it, dear?” 

“You accused me of being a flatterer,” he said. 


THE) SARI, OF ROSSVIIylyS HA^I, 


41 


“But I am no more so than you. You are always 
speaking in my favor, and as you said a moment 
ago, it shows what a little darling you are, doesn’t 
it?” 

“Now here we are off on that subject again, after 
we promised to not mention it,” she said. “It 
shows we are inclined to be weak — not to keep our 
word.” 

Lord Ross said he must be going now, and they 
parted to meet again in very different circumstances. 


CHAPTER V 


When Lord Ross reached the Hall, he was sur- 
prised to find a strange gentleman in the drawing 
room, waiting for him. The stranger handed him 
a card, and Lord Ross read, “Adrian Ross.” 

“I suppose you have heard of the son that was 
stolen from the late Earl,” the stranger asked, 
“many years ago ?” 

“Yes, I have heard that he had a son stolen,” 
Lord Ross replied. 

“Well, I am that son, and have come to claim 
my own,” said the stranger. Had a thunderbolt 
fallen from the sky, Lord Ross could not have been 
more shocked. 

“Have you the necessary proofs that you are the 
stolen heir?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes, certainly,” he replied. “Do you sup- 
pose I would have come if I had not?” and taking a 
paper from his pocket, he handed it to the Earl. 

He opened it, and read : 

“I, Piaro Cervanco, a Spanish gypsy, do hereby 
testify that I kidnapped Adrian, the son of the Earl 
of Rossville Hall, on the fourth day of April, twelve 
years ago. As I am dying, I feel that I must atone 
for some of the many wrongs I have done. But in 
justice to myself, I will tell why I did this thing. 

“A few years before I kidnapped the boy, I was 
traveling through England with a band of my peo- 
ple. There was a girl in the band, whom I loved 
and she loved me, until Lord Arnold Ross won her 


THD e)art od rossvittd hatt 


43 


heart from me. He would come to our camp 
almost every day, and my sweetheart fell in love 
with this fair-haired, slick-tongued Englishman. I 
warned her against him, but she said I was jealous. 
I told her I was jealous, but that I knew he was only 
amusing himself with her, that he did not love her. 
But he made her believe he meant to make her his 
wife. I swore to her I would kill him if he ever 
came to our camp any more. She told me she did 
not love me ; that, I think, drove me mad. I swore 
that I would kill him that very night if he came. 
That evening just before dark she walked toward 
Rossville Hall. I did not think anything of it, as 
she very often walked in that direction. But I un- 
derstood it later. She knew he was coming to our 
camp that night, and after my threats, she went to 
meet him, to warn him of his danger. When she 
returned she was weeping bitterly. The villain did 
not come to the camp again. He had ‘played the 
coward/ and instead of making her his wife, he 
had ruined her. 

“I vowed I would have revenge, but my revenge 
did not come until eight years after this, when we 
again passed through the country. I learned that 
he had taken an English bride, and had one child. 
When I heard this I knew the time had come. I 
would steal his child, for I knew that would reach 
his hard and cruel heart. As we were passing the 
Hall, a beautiful little child with blue eyes and fair 
hair was playing by the side of the road. I stopped 
and asked him if he did not want to ride? He said, 
‘Yes, me want to ride/ I helped him climb up by 


44 


THE) £ART OT ROSSVIIylyE) HAU, 


my side, and when he did so, I gagged him, and 
rode away as fast as I could. The little fellow 
looked so pitiable, I hardly had the heart to carry 
him away from his mother, but when I thought of 
my glorious revenge I hardened my heart and car- 
ried him away with me. No one ever knew what 
became of him. I read of the rewards his father 
offered, but I did not want his gold, I wanted re- 
venge. 

“The child grew to love me very much, and he 
thinks he is one of us, as he can not remember his 
father. I never meant to tell him, but I know that 
I must die very soon, and perhaps his father is dead, 
and he is heir to his wealth. I will let him read 
this, and make him promise not to go to England 
until he knows that the Earl is dead. I love the boy 
and I have never had any designs against him. He 
is not responsible for his father’s deeds. But if he 
will not give me this promise, I shall bind him over 
to my people, and they will never free him. I am 
glad to die for I shall see Marjorie again; we shall 
meet where we will not be parted. I feel better for 
having made this confession, and I give Adrian this 
so he can prove his identity. Sept. 2, 1834. Piaro 
Cervanco.” 

“I suppose that is all the proof that is needed?” 
the stranger said when Lord Ross had finished 
reading. 

“Yes,” he replied, “there’s no doubt about that, 
and as I am not the rightful owner, I will step out 
and give you possession.” 

“You need be in no haste about that,” the new 


THE) DARI, OD ROSSVIIvDD HAU, 


45 


Earl replied. “You are welcome to stay on at the 
Hall until I return to London for my wife and 
children.” 

“No, I can not do so, but thanking you for your 
kindness I have my way to make in the world, and 
may as well start at once/’ 

“I assure you this gives me more pain than pleas- 
ure/’ Lord Ross said. “I would not do this, but I 
must in justice to my children. Perhaps you would 
like to hear my story.” 

“I would, very much indeed,” Claude replied, and 
the Earl proceeded. 

“This paper I have, explains to you the mystery 
of my disappearance. I was with the gypsies until I 
was eighteen years of age, when Cervanco died and 
gave me this paper. I learned that my father was 
not dead and I was determined to' not break my 
promise. So I decided to travel until my father’s 
death, when, of course, I meant to come' back to 
England. We were in France when my foster- 
father died. Of course I left the band at once, and 
I went to Spain. I stayed in Spain seven years, 
then I went to Italy, where I met the little woman 
who is now my wife. Her people were very 
wealthy, and Marie was the only child. After we 
were married we traveled a good deal and our first 
child, a son, was born in Austria. We lived in 
Austria for two years and went from there to Rus- 
sia, then to Spain. Daphne, my daughter, was born 
in Spain. I call her my little Spaniard. My wife 
then wished to visit her old home in Italy, and we 
have been in Italy since until I heard of my father’s 


46 The: E)ART 0T ROSSVIIyl^E: HAIyly 

death, when we came to London as soon as possible. 
I have made a long story very short. I could tell 
about the many interesting things that I have seen 
on my travels, but I must tell you of a kind old gen- 
tleman whom we met in Spain, as he said he had 
some relatives in this part of England. It may be 
that you are acquainted with them. His name was 
Lorrimer, Roger Lorrimer, and he was very fond 
of Daphne, as he was very fond of. children. Of 
course I did not tell him my name, as he had lived 
in England, and I was afraid he might let my father 
know that I was still living.” 

“Yes, I know the man,” Claude replied. “He 
has some relatives who live just a short distance 
from here. Mr. Lorrimer visited them in June. 
He has gone to the East Indies now.” 

“Yes, he told me he traveled all the time,” Lord 
Ross replied. 

“Yes,” said Claude, “he has been pretty well over 
the world, but he says he means to' get rich and come 
back to England and settle down in some quiet little 
place, where he can live out the remainder of his 
days in peace. He took a great fancy to Kenton, 
his brother's son, and I presume he will make him 
his heir. He wanted to take him to the Indies, but 
his mother could not bear the thought of that. I 
•wonder, by the way, how I would prosper if I 
should go over to the Indies ? I believe I will, for 
Mr. Lorrimer is there and that would be so much 
better than starting anew in England.” 

“I should think it would be much better, “Lord 
Ross replied. “But what is the need of you going 


THE) 3ART OT ROSSVIUvE) HATIv 


47 


so far away? Do you not hate to leave your 
friends? For I am sure you have many.” 

“Yes,” Claude said, “I have some very dear and 
true friends, and I hate to leave them of course, for 
I know I cannot come back for some years. I may 
as well tell you, Lord Ross, I am engaged to the 
sweetest girl in all the world, and it is hard to think 
of leaving her.” 

“Why not marry her, and take her with you?” 
asked the other, “or not go to the Indies at all? 
Just to think, I am causing all this distress ! I half 
wish I had stayed in Italy. What would I have 
done, if something had come tO' part Marie and 
me?” 

“No, Lord Ross,” Claude replied with decision, 
“I will not marry her and take her so far away from 
her mother. They are greatly attached to each 
other. Her mother is a widow, and poor at that. 
But as for my leaving her, I’m sure it will almost 
break her tender little heart. But I must go. I 
mean to come back when I get rich, but not before. 
I am sure I can make money, if there is any to be 
made. And it is very probable that I can return in 
two or three years. Have you ever been to the East 
Indies, Lord Ross ?” he asked. 

“No, I never have, but I have always had a de- 
sire to visit them. I should think that was a won- 
derful country. And I wish you all the success you 
deserve.” 

“I do not mind the work, in the least,” he said, 
“for I have always been used to that. I do not 
mind giving up all these riches, for my part. Of 


43 


the: sari, of rossvittf hau. 


course I would like to have made little Essie Count- 
ess of Rossville. That is all that troubles me about 
giving up the earldom. I have always said I would 
never drag a woman down in poverty, which of 
course I would have to do, if I do not go away and 
make my fortune.” 

“That is the way to talk, my boy,” the Earl re- 
plied heartily. “If all young men were like you 
there would not be so much poverty and distress.” 

The Earl had to leave now in order to catch the 
next train for London. Claude bade him farewell, 
as he knew when the Earl returned he would be 
many miles away. 

After Claude was left to himself, he began to 
think of his misfortune. As he had told the Earl, 
it made no difference so< far as he was concerned if 
he were poor again, but to think of Essie. She 
would never be Countess, and she would have to 
give up her trip to America. He wished he had 
not told her they would go, then she would not have 
been disappointed. He had made her future even 
darker than it would have been, had she never seen 
him. She would never have hoped for any higher 
place than she then occupied. To be raised to a 
high hope, and then fail to reach it! And he had 
caused all this, he mused ; he had caused her to love 
him. He knew it would almost break her heart for 
him to leave her, but leave her he must. He would 
have given the world, if it had been his to give, to 
have stayed. How could he bear to* stay away so 
long — two or three years, perhaps more! He was 
half inclined to beg her to go with him. But no, 


TH£ SARI, OF ROSSVIUvF HAIJ, 


49 


he would be a man, he would not even ask her to go. 
It would be a coward’s act. How could her, 
mother do without her. So he argued the question 
on all sides, and came to the same conclusion each 
time. He must go, and go alone, leave his heart in 
old England. What if she grew to care for some 
one else? This thought kept passing through his 
mind. But no, no; Essie would be true to him. 
He might stay away ten years. She would wait for 
him. She had said she could never love again. 
He would put that horrible thought out of his mind ; 
his little Essie would be true to him though all else 
failed him. 

He told his valet to have his few belongings ready 
for him to leave on the first train — the next day. 
The man looked astonished. 

“Pardon me, my Lord, but may I ask what has 
happened? You look ill.” 

“I am going away, Bennett. I find I am not the 
rightful owner of Rossville. The lost heir has re- 
turned, and I am going away — going to the East 
Indies.” 

Bennett soon managed to let the other servants 
know that a new master was coming. They had a 
great dread of this new master, for the old Earl had 
been very unkind to them, and they thought per- 
haps his son would follow in his father’s footsteps. 
They all declared that they had much rather Lord 
Claude would stay, for he was kind and treated 
them all with respect. Mrs. Sullivan, the house- 
keeper, burst into tears and exclaimed, “Lord Ross, 
4 


50 


TH3 SARI, OS ROSSVIIAvS HAI/L, 


really going away — going to the Indies. Oh! I 
can not bear to see him go.” She had learned to 
love the Earl almost as if he were her own son, as 
she often said. He was very good to her, for he 
said he believed in treating servants as if they were 
human. They all declared there was not a finer 
young man in England. Bennett said he did not 
see what that son wanted to come back for, right at 
the wrong time. Why could he not have put in an 
appearance before they had learned to love Lord 
Claude as he would persist in calling him. He said 
that no one thanked him for coming there. He 
said he knew he should not like the new Earl, be- 
cause he had been the means of them losing Lord 
Claude. Claude told him he was very sorry he had 
^uch a bad opinion of the new Earl, for he was an 
honorable gentleman, and he was quite sure they 
would like him. But they said they knew they 
would not if he was anything like his father. 
Claude told them they should not judge him by 
his father, for he had seen some as good and noble 
men as ever lived whose fathers were criminals. 

But his mind was not on criminals or the new 
Earl, either, at that moment. He was thinking of 
Essie, and as he knew it would be his last evening 
with her for a long time, he went directly to Mrs. 
Lorrimer’s. 


CHAPTER VI 


Essie was surprised when she saw Claude com- 
ing, for though he came every day, he seldom came 
twice in one day. She went to meet him as she had 
always done since she had promised to be his wife, 
but when she was near enough to see his face, she 
was struck with fear. 

“What on earth has happened, Claude ?” she 
cried. “Why do you look so pale? Are you ill, 
dear? Has something dreadful happened?” 

“Yes, darling,” he said, “something very dread- 
ful has happened. Come into the house and I will 
tell you all about it.” 

He led her in the house, seated her and then took 
a seat by her side. 

“Essie dear, do you think you could bear a very 
great shock?” 

“Yes,” she said, “anything is better than this sus- 
pense.” 

“Well, Essie, when I reached home after I left 
you a short time ago, I was surprised to find a 
strange man in the drawing room waiting for me. 
Who do 1 you suppose that stranger was ?” 

“I have not the least idea,” she replied, “but do 
tell me.” 

“It was no other than the lost heir of Rossville. 
I am an Earl no longer. I am what you might 
almost call a poor man. But do not think I mind 
this except on your account, for now you can never 
be a Countess, you will have to give up your trip to 


52 THE) £ART OF ROSSVIIJvF hau, 

America. I am the cause of all this ; if I had never 
troubled you with my love, then you would never 
have been deprived of these things you hoped for.” 

“As if I should ever have had any such expecta- 
tions if I had never met you! Do you suppose I 
care for this?” she said scornfully. “Do you think 
for a moment I love you any the less for this mis- 
fortune? If you do, what a great mistake you 
make! I am just as willing to be your wife now as 
I ever was. I was not going to marry you just to 
be a Countess. I mean to marry you for true love, 
and nothing else.” 

“Oh! don’t think that I meant it that way, dear,” 
he replied. “For I had never thought of such a 
thing. What I meant was this: I did so want to 
give you a beautiful home, and make you my 
Countess. I know you love me, and that is the 
reason I hate to leave you so much.” 

“Leave me? Oh! Claude, you don’t mean to 
say you are going to leave me? Did I not tell you 
yesterday, I could not live without you?” 

“Essie, I must go. I have my way to make in the 
world, and I say I must go.” 

“And leave me, Claude?” 

“Yes, my darling, I must go and leave you, but 
only for a little while, for of course I shall come 
back to my little girl.” 

“Where are you going?” she asked. 

“I am going to the East Indies, where Uncle 
Roger is.” 

“Why, Claude, if you go there you can’t possibly 
come back in a year, and I shall die of grief and 
loneliness before that time.” 


THE) E)ARIy OF' ROSSVIIJvE) HAW, 


S3 


“You say you will be lonely here with all your 
friends, but how do you suppose it will be with me ? 
I shall know no one but Uncle Roger. I will have 
nothing to keep my mind from going back to old 
England every moment. You will not be near so 
lonely as I, Essie. And as for me being gone a 
year, as you said a moment ago, I shall be gone 
more than a year, for as Uncle Roger says, I mean 
to go out there and get rich, and then come back, 
make you my wife, and give you a home that you 
will be proud of. That is one side of the question, 
and here is the other. If I should not go, of course 
we would both be happier for a short while, and 
then poverty would stare us in the face. God 
knows I would not go, if circumstances were not 
just as they are. The pain it gives to leave you, 
words can never, never tell. Now, Essie, look at 
the subject on all sides, and see if you do not think 
it best for me to go.” 

“Do not ask me what is best, Claude, for you 
know better than I. Of course if you think it best 
to go I will not ask you not to go. But how can I 
bear the parting? After that is over it will not be 
quite so hard to bear.” 

“Now that is like my brave little Essie. Yes, the 
parting from my darling will be the hardest part. 
But think of the long hours I must spend at sea, and 
know that I am being borne farther and farther 
away from you, and think how lonely I will be in 
the Indies !” 

“Claude,” Essie said, as she wiped her eyes, 
“mother was saying only yesterday that we never 


54 


THE) BART OR ROSSVITTB HATT 


know what is coming. I told her that for my part I 
could see nothing but happiness for me, but now I 
can see nothing but misery, and distress for me, I 
will try to be brave and bear it, Claude, but oh ! how 
can I? To think of my darling so far away, and 
to know that he is thinking of me, and wishing to be 
with me, as much as I will wish to be with him. It 
would not be so hard to bear if I only knew when 
you will come back to* me. But you can not even 
tell me that. Claude, are you sure you will come 
back to me ag*ain ?” 

“Yes, Essie, I will come back to you; nothing 
can keep me from coming except death.” 

“And I will wait for you though you are gone 
twenty years,” she said. 

“Yes, dear, you can rest assured I will come 
back,” he replied, “and then we shall not be parted 
until death.” 

“When do you mean to start?” she asked. 

“On the first train to-morrow. When you awake 
in the morning, think how sad and lonely I will be 
on a train bearing me away from my darling.” 

“Do you really mean to go so soon? Why did 
you not stay with me one more day?” 

“Well, for this reason, Essie, dear. If I do 1 not 
go to-morrow, I shall miss the next steamer bound 
for the Indies, and the longer I stay the more I 
shall dread to leave you. I think it best to go at 
once.” 

“Claude, just to think, this is the last time I can 
be with you for long years, perhaps forever, who 
can tell ?” 


the: E)ART od ROSSVITTD HATIv 


55 


“No, we cannot tell,” he replied. “But, dear 
Essie, if we never meet again on earth, we can in 
Heaven. Do not look at the dark side of things. 
Everything looks lonely now, but 

“ ‘Behind the clouds is the sun still shining, 

Our fate is the common fate of all; 

Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days must be dark and dreary.’ ” 

“It is well to say let us look at the bright side of 
things, but when one’s heart is breaking, that is not 
so easy to do,” she said. 

“I know it is not easy to do, Essie, but if we can, 
it would be best. Now, Essie, do stop weeping. It 
unmans me to see you in such distress. Try to 
be brave for my sake.” 

“I will try,” she sobbed, “but, oh ! my darling, it 
is so hard, so very hard, to think of those long; 
weary days when I can not see you.” 

They were silent for a few moments, each lost in 
gloomy thoughts. Then he said: “Essie, will you 
not give me one of those beautiful golden curls to 
look at when I am so far away ?” 

“Yes,” she said, sadly, and taking up a pair of 
scissors that lay near by, she clipped a curl off and 
gave it to him, saying, “In remembrance of me. 
Each time you look at that you can think that far 
across the sea, in old England, there is a girl waiting 
patiently, lovingly, longingly for your return. 
Though far away she will still be true to you, and 
each time I kneel down by my bed at night, I shall 
remember my darling so many miles away.” 


56 


The) e)art od rossvittD hatt 


“Thank you, dear/’ he said, reverently, as he took 
the curl, and, taking a small Bible from his pocket 
he placed the curl between its pages and returned 
the book to his pocket. 

“Each time I look at that precious little curl 
I shall think of my sweet little Essie. Nothing 
could cause me to part with that one little token of 
your love. I would not part with it for all the gold 
in the Indies, and each night before I close my eyes 
I shall look at that dear little curl and ask God to 
bless my little Essie, mid the hills of old England, 
far away.” 

“Thank you, Claude,” she said. “I hope that 
God will bless me, and you know that the greatest 
blessing he can give me will be to hasten your re- 
turn.” 

After a while he asked her to go with him to bid 
her mother and Kenton farewell. He gave Mrs. 
Lorrimer his reasons for going, and she could not 
blame him for going, but was very sorry. But 
Kenton burst into tears and declared that every one 
whom he learned to like very much had to' go> to the 
East Indies. First Uncle Roger and now Lord 
Ross, as he, too, still called him. Claude told him 
that he and Uncle Roger would both come back 
some day, and then he would be glad, when he 
found how rich, they had grown. But Kenton said, 
“I do not care for money, it is you and Uncle Roger 
I want. Essie,” he said, turning to her, “how are 
you to do without Lord Ross ?” 

“That is something I can not tell you,” she re- 


THE) E)ARIy OT ROSSVIIJvS HAIAv 5 ? 

plied, sadly, “but I suppose I will have to do with- 
out him.” 

“Is it possible that I shall be missed so much?” 
Claude asked, turning to Mrs. Lorrimer. 

“Yes,” she replied, “we shall all miss you a great 
deal. When do you think you can come back to 
England ?” 

“That is a question I cannot answer,” he replied, 
“but I shall try to come back in three years at the 
very longest.” 

He then bade Mrs. Lorrimer and Kenton good- 
by and Essie accompanied him to the gate. They 
walked down the path in silence. When they 
reached the gate he clasped her hands and said, des- 
pairingly : “My darling, my dear little Essie. 
That moment we have dreaded so much has come. 
How can I leave you? How can I say good-by, 
knowing it will be for such a long, long time? Essie, 
will you think this time to-morrow evening who was 
with you at the same time to-day? And you may 
know that though I am far away, my heart will be 
left with you. Will you think of this to-morrow, 
Essie? Why do you not speak to me, darling? 
What is the matter, dear, that you will not 
answer me ?•” 

She had leaned against the gate, and turned her 
face away from him, for she was weeping, and did 
not wish him to know it. She had tried to be brave, 
but the tears would come. 

“Speak to me, Essie,” he said. “Remember I am 
going now in a very few moments.” 

“Oh! Claude,” she sobbed, “I tried so hard, so 


58 


THD E)ART OD ROSSVITTD HATT 


very hard, to keep back the tears, but I could not! 
Forgive me, dear.” 

“Of course I should not expect you to do this,” 
he said. “I might have known you would have 
been sorry to give me up, for I know you love me, 
and I know from the feeling of my own heart, how 
very hard this parting is. And now, Essie, what 
shall I tell Uncle Roger for you?” 

“Tell him I send him my best love and good 
wishes, and that he must be sure to take care of my 
Claude, and that when you come home he must 
come with you. Tell him we think and speak of 
him every day and that Kenton still talks of him and 
wishes that he could have gone with him.” 

“I shall tell him all this,” he replied, “and I will 
do my best to get him to return with me. But go I 
must now. Good-by, my little Essie,” as he clasped 
her hand fervently. 

“Good-by, Claude,” she replied, “and may God 
bless you, my darling, and bring you safely home!” 

A farewell kiss on the little hand, which he held 
clasped so tightly in his own while her words died 
away, then he was gone. 

“Gone,” she said to herself, when she had 
watched him to a turn in the road, where he turned 
around to look at her as she still stood where he 
had left her. He raised his hat and waved it, and 
was lost to view. 

“Farewell, my darling,” she murmured. “Per- 
haps forever, who can tell?” 

She entered the house, went to her room, closed 
the door, and falling upon her little white bed, she 


the} e}art of rossviUvE} hate. 


59 


wept passionately. “How can I ever live those 
three long years,” she murmured, “without my dear 
Claude? I shall miss his daily visits so much. I 
can not stand by the window and watch for his 
coming, so as to catch a glimpse of his dear face 
before any one else, so as to receive his first loving 
smile. I really do not know how I am to bear this, 
perhaps mamma could tell me something to 1 cheer 
me,” and rising she went to her mother. 

She fell upon her knees by her mother’s side, and 
laying her head in her mother’s lap, she sobbed, 
“Oh! mamma, what shall I do? How can I bear 
this ? Can you not tell me something to cheer me ? 
If you do not I shall die ! Oh ! why did Claude ever 
leave me? I had rather lived in poverty all my life 
with him, than to have let him go away to this 
strange foreign country, and all for my sake, too. 
Why did I not beg him to stay ? I am sure if I had 
asked him he would have stayed.” 

“Do you not remember what you said?” her 
mother replied; “that you would never oppose 
Claude, that he knew best? Now think of that, 
Essie, and remember it is all for the best. You 
can not see it that way now, of course, but you can 
some day, I am sure. So dry your tears and do as 
he asked you. Be brave for his sake. He will come 
back to you some day, and remember, the more 
painful the parting, the more blissful the meeting. 
Remember you have Kenton and me left to you.” 

“Yes, I will do this,” Essie replied, as she kissed 
her mother’s brow. “I shall devote my life to you 


6o 


THK RARL, OR ROSSVIIvIvE) HAW, 


and Kenton those three long years, and if I do this 
perhaps they will not seem so long after all. ,, 

“That is the way to talk, Essie,” her mother re- 
plied. “That is like my little Essie. You can hear 
from Claude very often, and this will serve to keep 
you from being so very lonely. I was sorry to see 
Claude go so far away, but tears can not bring him 
back, so what is the need to shed them? I know 
Claude was troubled as much at leaving you as you 
were at seeing him leave. He did not shed a tear, 
I am sure, for he knew tears to be useless.” 

But if tears would have helped his cause, Claude 
would have shed them. For when he turned and 
saw Essie standing by the gate, and thought how 
long it would be before he could see her again, it 
was with great effort that he did keep back the tears. 
He walked rapidly until he reached the Hall, where 
he soon retired for the night. He slept very little, 
for he kept thinking of his little Essie, of that 
pleading, tearful little face raised to his, and those 
beautiful eyes, filled with tears, looking at him so 
sadly. At last he fell asleep, only to dream of the 
same little face and pleading blue eyes. He arose 
very early the following morning and bidding the 
servants farewell, he hastened to the station, which 
he reached just in time to catch the train. 


CHAPTER VII 


The morning after Claude’s parting with Essie 
broke bright and clear, the air seemed as fresh and 
sweet as ever, and the birds were singing gaily in 
the treetops. Essie awoke with a sense of indefin- 
able dread. When she remembered what had hap- 
pened her heart sank. “Claude has gone,” she mur- 
mured. “He is many miles away; would that I 
could go to sleep, and not awake until his return! 
Oh ! to think of three long years of waiting ! But I 
told him I would wait patiently, and wait patiently 
I must.” 

So rising she dressed quickly and began to busy 
herself about the duties of the day. With many 
tender thoughts of Claude and his meeting with 
Uncle Roger, the day did not seem nearly so long 
and lonely as she had expected. Mrs. Lorrimer did 
not know what to make of such cheerfulness. She 
had expected to see Essie in tears for the next fort- 
night. 

“My dear child, I am glad to> see you looking so 
well and cheerful,” she said, “for as I told you yes- 
terday there is no need for tears.” 

“Yes, mamma,” Essie replied, “I have thought it 
all over, and have come to the conclusion that it is 
best for me to submit willingly to this separation. 
I suppose it was best for Claude to> go, though the 
parting gave us pain.” 

“Yes, my dear, most certainly it was for the best. 


6 2 


the: e;ari, ot rossvitte; halt 


If you cannot see it that way now, I am sure you 
will some day.” 

And then they fell to talking of the new Earl of 
Rossville Hall. 

“Mamma, do you suppose the new Lord Ross will 
make as good and kind a master as Claude was ?” 

“I cannot tell, Essie,” Mrs. Lorrimer replied; 
“but if he is anything like his father, I am afraid not. 
But we should not judge him by his father. He is 
not responsible for what his father- was.” 

“Claude said all the servants were greatly dis- 
tressed to 1 have him go away, and so I am sure he 
must have been a good, kind master,” Essie said.. 

“Oh ! I am sure he was kind to them,” Mrs. Lor- 
rimer replied, “for he is kind to every one. I do 
not think you could have made a better choice^ 
Essie. I am sure he will make you a good and lov- 
ing husband.” 

“Yes, mamma, I think he will, for he is all that is 
noble, good and true, and I love him more than my 
own life. I never thought I could ever love any one 
as I do Claude. I do not blame Uncle Roger for 
being a wanderer if he loved Claude’s mother as I 
love Claude.” 

It had now been six days since Claude left home. 
The new Lord Ross and his family had come to 
the manor. Rupert, the son, was a bright, interest- 
ing fellow of sixteen, with black hair and piercing 
black eyes. He was a boy, you could tell at a 
glance, who had a kind and generous heart. The 
girl, too, was a beautiful little creature, with black 
hair and eyes of a deep, dark blue. She was about 


THE) EjARIy OF ROSSVILIy^ HAIA, 


63 


thirteen years of age, though she had the ways of a 
much older girl. She told her father that England 
was grand and she could not see how he had stayed 
away so long; that she was very sure she should 
never want to leave England ; that, though she had 
the features of an Italian, she had an English heart. 
Lady Ross could not agree with Daphne, though she 
liked England. She still thought there was no place 
like Italy. She was of a kind disposition toward 
those she loved, but was inclined to be very haughty 
toward those whom she considered inferior to her- 
self. With the proud, arrogant Lady Ross, wealth 
was everything. Rupert and Daphne, unlike their 
mother, were kind to all. Rupert told his mother 
that if he ever got married that he would be sure to 
choose a poor girl. And Daphne, who thought she 
must always side with her brother, said the same. 
But Lady Ross said she could not bear the thought 
of her children marrying beneath them. 

* * * * 

Perhaps some one is wondering what has become 
of the two Merryington girls? Gertrude had long 
since found it useless to* think of marrying Claude 
Ross, for she knew how matters were progressing 
at the cottage. Olivia laughed at her when they 
heard that he was betrothed to Essie Lorrimer. 

“I am so very glad that I did not waste my time 
with him ,” she said. “I haye been making good 
progress, for I think Sir Reginald will propose in a 
short time. Oh! yes/' she continued, “I gave up 
my interest in him very willingly. I had a suspicion 
of how it would all end, and you were foolish 


64 


THE} EARIv OT ROSSVITIvE: haix 


enough to think you could win him, when he has 
never spoken to you one-half dozen times.” 

“Yes, and you were the cause of it all,” Gertrude 
snapped. “If you had not disturbed us the night of 
the ball, matters would have turned out very dif- 
ferently.” 

“Oh! no doubt you think so,” Olivia retorted. 
“But no one else thinks like that. Every one knows 
you set your heart on winning him and failed. If I 
were in your place, Gertrude, I would retire from 
society. You say Lord Ross called me old-maidish 
looking. I should like to know what he thinks of 
you ? I suppose he must have thought you were the 
old maid’s elder sister. But never mind, when I am 
Reginald Stockwell’s wife, you can visit me some- 
times and I’ll pass you off as my sister, just sweet 
sixteen. How will that please you ?” she added, sar- 
castically. 

“You had better not plan what you mean to do 
when you are Reginald Stockwell’s wife,” Gertrude 
replied. 

“I am not uneasy in the least,” said Olivia, “for I 
trust he will not marry some pauper and leave me 
to die an old maid.” 

“Do you suppose Lord Ross is the only man liv- 
ing that I can marry?” 

“No, no,” Olivia replied, “of course I do not think 
that, for you can’t even marry him. And as for 
any one else being foolish enough to marry you, I 
don’t think there is any one else in the country so 
void of understanding.” 


the: FART OF ROSSVIIvIvE: HATT 65 

“Olivia, I declare I could box your ears for you,” 
Gertrude replied. 

“I hardly think you could,” Olivia said. “I am 
past the boxing age, and besides, it isn’t good form 
for an old maid’s elder sister to box her ears,” and 
she smiled tauntingly. 

Olivia could outwit Gertrude in words, but if 
either girl had a heart, Olivia was that one. Ger- 
trude was entirely selfish and cruel. 

Some weeks later they were in the morning room 
when Lady Merryington told them about the new 
master at Rossville Hall. 

“And so he has lost his earldom,” said Olivia. 
“I am more glad than ever that I wasted no time 
with him.” 

“Yes,” said Gertrude, “you were always throw- 
ing it up to me about the Earl, and you see he will 
be much better suited to the Lorrimer girl now, for 
of course if he is poor I don’t care.” 

“Oh, yes,” said Olivia, “you can afford to talk 
that way now, but if he had remained Lord Ross 
you would have hated Essie Lorrimer the longest 
day of your life.” 

“And would have had cause to do so,” Gertrude 
replied. “I would not have done as you did, hated 
the girl without any reason. She could not help it, 
if Lord Ross did say what he did about you.” 

“Well, as for that, she could not help him loving 
her better than you, either, and I have heard you 
say you hated her, dozens of times.” 

“Yes, but I am thankful now that he did choose 
5 


66 


THE) E)ARIv Otf ROSSVIIvIvE: hati< 


her instead of me, for of course if he had chosen me, 
I should have broken our engagement when he lost 
his money.” 

“Oh! don’t you wish you could exchange places 
with me ?” Olivia said, with a sarcastic smile. 

“No, indeed,” said Gertrude, with a scornful toss 
of her head. “Sir Reginald is nothing to boast of.” 

“I know he is nothing for you to boast of, but he 
is for me,” she said. “He is better than having no 
one, like you.” 

“I should like to know how Claude Ross means 
to live now,” Olivia said, after a slight pause, “for 
of course he is nothing more than a pauper.” 

“He has gone to the East Indies,” said Lady 
Merryington, who had been a silent listener to the 
conversation. 

“Well,” said Gertrude, “if he has gone to the 
Indies, Essie Lorrimer may as well bid him farewell 
forever.” 

“There is where you make another of those great 
mistakes you are forever making, Gertrude,” Lady 
Merryington replied. “He has gone to the Indies 
so as to get rich and then return to' England and 
make her as fine a home as if she were a countess. 
So Lady Reyford told me.” 

“Oh! no doubt he told Essie Lorrimer so, but 
had no idea of doing any such thing. It is very 
probable that he has not even gone to the Indies, 
and told the Lorrimer girl this, so as to get away 
without her making so much fuss.” 

“Now listen to Gertrude again,” said Olivia. 
“Always trying to make believe. She said Lord 


THE) E)ART ROSSVIIvIvE: haia, 67 

Ross did not love the girl and he did, now she says 
he doesn’t mean to come back.” 

“I said he did not mean to marry her,” said Ger- 
trude. “And he has not. Now do> you see? I was 
not so far wrong after all.” 

“If he has not married her it is no sign he will 
never,” said Lady Merryington; “for my part I 
believe he will marry her, and have believed that 
way since he talked so earnestly about her. I am 
sure he loves her, and so, Gertrude, you just 
watch and wait two or three years and see if he 
doesn’t come, and when he does come, he will come 
wealthy.” 

“Possibly you may be right, mamma,” Gertrude 
replied, “but when I see Claude Ross in England I 
will believe it and not before. And if Essie Lorri- 
mer is foolish enough to wait for him, of course 
she can use her own pleasure, but I would not have 
that much confidence in any of them. Mamma, have 
you ever experienced this wonderful thing called 
love?” 

“Yes, dear,” Lady Merryington replied. “I loved 
your father very devotedly. I should never have 
married him if I had not. I really do not see how 
people can live without love.” 

“Well, I don’t care for any of this nonsense about 
love,” said Olivia. 

“Olivia, do you mean to say you are going to 
marry Sir Reginald and you do not love him?” said 
Lady Merryington. 

“That’s just it,” Olivia replied. “I had never 


68 


the Eare oe rossvieeE hate 


thought of love, for I am in that way like Gertrude, 
I do not believe in it.” 

“Olivia, I am afraid yours will be a very un- 
happy lot,” said Lady Merryington. “To marry 
without love is worse than anything you could do.” 

“I don’t think that way,” she replied. “If I get a 
handsome man, with plenty of money, it is all I 
care for.” 

“Well,” said Gertrude, “the man I marry must be 
both handsome and wealthy and must have a title.” 

“Oh ! don’t be so extravagant in your ideas,” said 
Olivia; “if you are so> very choice, I do not think 
you will find any such in England, since you failed 
to get Claude Ross. If you had, the title and money 
would have been gone now, and the handsome man 
would be all you would have left. I don’t think you 
will find those three things together. You should 
not be so choice.” 

But Gertrude said she would be just that particu- 
lar and that it was nobody’s business and she left the 
room, angrily, declaring Olivia was too ugly to 
talk to. 


CHAPTER VIII 


One afternoon when Kenton was returning from 
the little village of Rossville he was attracted by 
cries of distress. He looked in every direction, but 
could see no one, but as he was a very short distance 
from the river, he hurried over to the bank, think- 
ing possibly some one had fallen in. He looked up 
and down, but could see no one. Then he heard a 
cry almost under him, and looking down, he saw a 
little girl holding on to a frail bush. As he looked 
the bush gave way and the little girl fell into the 
water. Kenton was an excellent swimmer, and 
quick as thought his coat and shoes were off and he 
had jumped in after her. She had sunk once and 
then he saw her some little distance down the 
stream. Kenton swam toward her with all the 
speed possible. “Oh ! if I could not reach her,” he 
thought, “and she should be drowned.” She disap- 
peared under the water again, and his heart sank. 
“Oh! God give me strength to reach her,” he 
prayed. When she came up again he seized her by 
the hair. “Now if I can ever reach the bank,” he 
thought. His strength was almost spent, but he 
was determined not to lose his hold of her, and 
struggling manfully on, he finally reached the bank, 
just when it seemed to him as if he could not have 
gone twelve inches farther. He laid her down and 
stood looking at her, wondering who she was and 
thinking how pretty she was. Her long black hair 


7 o thd e)art od rossvittd hatt 

had fallen over her shoulders, and the beautiful little 
face was pale and still. 

“This will not do,” Kenton thought. “If she 
would only open her eyes. I will carry her home,” 
he thought, “maybe mamma will know what to do 
for her.” Lifting her in his strong young arms, he 
carried her to the house, which was not very far 
from the river. 

“What on earth have you there, Kenton?” said 
Essie, as he called to her to open the door. 

“A real little fairy,” he replied, as he laid her 
upon the bed; “and now, mamma, do- all you can 
for her, quick.” 

“But what has happened?” Mrs. Lorrimer asked, 
excitedly. “Tell me — is she hurt?” 

“She was almost drowned,” Kenton replied. 
“Do hurry, mamma. I will tell you how it all hap- 
pened as soon as she is well.” 

“Mrs. Lorrimer and Essie went to work with a 
will, and very soon the little girl’s eyes opened. 

She gazed vacantly around. 

“Where am I?” she asked. “What has hap- 
pened?” Then her gaze fell upon Kenton and she 
seemed to remember it all. 

“Oh!” she said, “I know how it all happened. 
You were the boy that shouted to me you would 
help me, just as I fell into the water. Who are 
you?” she asked, “and you?” she said, turning to 
Mrs. Lorrimer. 

“I am a good friend,” she replied ; “but you must 
be quiet ; then when you have had a little rest, I will 


THD DARI, OD ROSSVIDDD HAU, 


7 1 


tell you my name and where you are. You must go 
to sleep.” 

“You tell me your name?” she said, turning to 
Kenton, “then I will go to sleep.” 

“My name is Kenton Lorrimer,” he replied. 

“And mine is Daphne Ross,” she said, as she 
closed her eyes obediently. 

When she had fallen asleep, Mrs. Lorrimer turned 
to her son. 

“How did it happen that you were on the spot in 
such good time ?” 

He told them and then said: “Isn’t she a little 
dear, mamma? With such dark eyes and black 
glossy curls. My ! but don’t I wish I had a sister like 
her. I have one lovely sister, but just to think of 
having two — one with golden curls and loving blue 
eyes, and the other with black hair and black eyes.” 

But after thinking further over this awhile, he 
said, half aloud and half to himself : “No, I guess I 
don’t wish she was my sister, either.” 

Mrs. Lorrimer and Essie looked at each other but 
did not speak. 

“And such a pretty name,” he continued. “I 
know you at least think the latter name lovely,” he 
said, turning to Essie. 

“Yes,” she replied, “I think it a- very pretty 
name,” and a look of sadness came into her face, 
as she thought of that loved one to whom Kenton 
referred. 

“And I have just thought,” Kenton exclaimed, “I 
will wager she is the daughter of Lord Ross. I am 
almost sure she is.” 


72 


TH£ EJARIv OF ROSSVIUvF HAFIv 


Mrs. Lorrimer and Essie had not thought of this, 
but now it seemed very probable that she was. 

“Yes, I expect you are right, Kenton,” Mrs. Lor- 
rimer replied. “I have no doubt but what she is the 
Earl’s daughter and you must go at once and tell 
him what has happened, for it is probable that they 
are alarmed at her absence.” 

“Do let me stay, mamma, and have her tell how 
she came to be in such a dangerous place, and then 
we shall be certain she is the Earl’s daughter, and we 
can’t be sure until she wakes. Maybe she won’t 
sleep long, mamma. Do- let me stay, I like to watch 
her while she sleeps.” 

So Mrs. Lorrimer told him he might stay a little 
longer, but if she did not wake in a short time, he 
must go without her waking. 

However, the little girl soon woke and then Mrs. 
Lorrimer asked: “Where do you live, little girl?” 

“I live at the Hall,” she replied. “Lord Ross is 
my father, and oh, I must go home, for they will be 
worried about me.” 

“No, no,” Mrs. Lorrimer replied. “You must re- 
main where you are, until Kenton goes to tell your 
father. Then he will come for you, but as Kenton 
is very anxious, as well as Essie and I, to know how 
you came to be in such a dangerous place, would 
you mind telling us?” 

“No,” she replied, “I do not mind it a bit. I think 
I should be very ungrateful if I did, after that brave 
boy has saved my life.” 

Kenton blushed like a girl at this. 

“Why, I am not brave,” he stammered. 


THE DARI, OD ROSSVII/DD HAU, 73 

“I want to thank you,” she said, “ever so many 
times, for what would Rupert do without me? I 
must first tell you how I came to be there, and then 
thank you.” 

“I don’t deserve any thanks,” he replied, “but do 
tell us.” 

“Rupert and I — that is my brother — often go 
there to watch the water and to gather flowers and 
hear the birds sing. But today I went alone and 
had gathered some flowers and then I sat down on 
the bank of the river ; as I was making my flowers 
into a bouquet I dropped the loveliest of all and it 
lodged a little way down the bank. I started to get 
it and I had almost reached it when I lost my foot- 
ing. I knew if I fell in the river I should be 
drowned, so I clutched a little bush and screamed 
for help. I knew the bush was giving way, or even 
if it should hold I could not hold on much longer, 
but I felt the bush giving way and screamed. Just 
as I struck the water I heard you shout you would 
save me. I looked up and saw you standing there, 
almost where I had been sitting. Then the water 
closed over me and that was all, until I found myself 
here. Oh!” she shuddered, “if you had not been 
there I should have been drowned! To think of 
lying dead at the bottom of that cold, muddy river ! 
I just can’t express my thanks to- you, and I suppose 
there is no need to try.” 

“No, do not try, please,” Kenton replied. “I do 
not want any thanks. Now I must go and tell your 
father what has happened.” 

When he had left the room Mrs. Lorrimer said, 


74 


e;art o T rossvilte: hau. 


“I have not yet told you my name. It is Mrs. L,or- 
rimer. I am Kenton's mother, and this is his sister, 
Essie." 

“Oh! what a pretty name. Essie, I always have 
admired that name, and I am sure I shall like you. 
I like you now." 

“I am so glad you do," Essie replied, “for I can 
say the same." 

“Can you really?" she said, as she clasped Essie's 
hand. “I am glad, too, then I should like to stay 
with you. I have no sister and I should get very 
lonely if it were not for Rupert. He is the dearest 
brother in the world, and as you and I shall be 
great friends, I should wish Rupert and Kenton 
to like each other, too, and I am sure Rupert will 
like Kenton, because he saved my life, and," she 
said, turning to Mrs. Lorrimer, “I must tell you of 
an old gentleman whom we met in our travels, as 
possibly he may be a relative of yours. His name 
was Roger Lorrimer and he was just the dearest old 
man in the world. I loved him next to papa and 
would give the world to see him. He seemed to love 
me as if I had been his own child." 

“Why, that was surely Uncle Roger," Essie ex- 
claimed. “Did you not say his name was Roger?" 

“Yes," the child replied, “and is he really your 
uncle ?" 

“Yes," said Essie, “he visited us last June, but he 
is far away now in the East Indies." 

“Oh ! I am so sorry," exclaimed the girl. “I was 
in hopes I should see him here. It was in Spain we 
met him, and he told us he had some relatives in 


THE) EjARI, OF ROSSVITTE: HALF 


75 


England. And he is your uncle? Why, I used 
always to call him Uncle Roger.” 

A carriage now drew up to the gate and a tall 
gentleman got out, followed by Kenton and another 
boy of about Kenton’s size. Daphne saw them 
through the window. 

“Oh! Papa has come, and Rupert too! What 
will he think of me for being so very careless ! I am 
sure I deserve a scolding, but papa will not do it; 
he is too fond of me ever to scold me.” 

They now entered the room, and clasping the 
child in his arms, the Earl exclaimed : “To think 
had it not been for this brave boy, 1 should have lost 
you. How can I ever repay him ? May I give you 
this ?” he said, turning to Kenton and taking a roll 
of bills from his pocket. 

“No, sir,” said Kenton, “I do not want your 
money ; no, sir ! To think of being paid for saving 
that beautiful little girl from being drowned! I 
know we are very poor, but I do not want this 
money. I only did what any other boy would have 
done. I do not call that a brave act.” 

“But, my lad,” the Earl continued, kindly, 
amazed at the boy’s way of putting it, “I only wish 
to do this to show you how I appreciate your deed. 
Suppose you accept it as a loan, then,” the Earl sug- 
gested. 

“No,” Kenton replied, “I am afraid I should 
never be able to repay it. I do not want the money, 
Lord Ross. Please do not ask me to take it. I am 
glad I saved her, but why should I accept this 
money?” 


76 


TH£ £ARIv OF ROSSVIUvF HAIX 


“Well, if you will not accept the money, I will 
not insist any more. But you will at least accept 
my thanks ?” 

“Yes,” said Kenton, rather unwillingly, “if I 
must, but I do not deserve any thanks.” 

“Yes, you do,” Daphne interrupted. “Doesn’t 
he, Rupert?” 

“Yes,” the other boy replied, “he deserves more 
than thanks, but is too* proud to accept anything else. 
But say, Daphne,” he whispered, “I’ll tell you what, 
you just take that locket with your picture in it from 
your neck and give him that. I know he will at 
least accept that.” 

“That is the very idea, Rupert,” she replied; 
“thank you,” and taking the locket from her neck, 
she advanced toward Kenton. 

“Wouldn’t you like one of my pictures to look at 
sometimes and think of the girl whose life you 
saved ?” 

“Yes,” he said, joyfully, as he took the locket 
from her hand, “and I shall appreciate this more 
than all the money you could put in this house. Oh ! 
isn’t it lovely,” he exclaimed, “it looks as if it were 
really you. I can never thank you enough for 
this.” 

“It isn’t really worth anything,” she replied, “but 
you would not accept anything else.” 

“Now I knew he would like that,” Rupert whis- 
pered to Daphne. “That was the thing to give him. 
Didn’t his eyes shine, though ? I like that boy, and 
mean that we shall be great friends.” 

“I hope you will,” she replied, “for I like him too. 


the: e)art ot rossvittd hatt 


77 


I like him next to you. Invite him to the Hall. I 
am sure he would like it, and so would we. 5 ’ 

“That is just what I mean to do,” Rupert said. 
When they were ready to start Rupert clasped Ken- 
ton’s hand and said, “I like you, Kenton Lorrimer, 
and so does Daphne, don’t you ?” 

“Yes,” she replied, “ever so much.” 

And Rupert continued, “I want you to come to 
the Hall real often, for I mean that we shall be 
great friends.” 

“Thank you,” Kenton replied. “You are very 
kind and I will, for I like you and Miss Daphne, 
too.” 

“Do you?” she said. “I am so glad. I told your 
sister while you were gone for papa, that I did wish 
you and Rupert to 1 be good friends, and Essie and I 
mean to be the same, don’t we ?” she said, address- 
ing Essie. 

“Yes,” Essie replied, “that is just what we mean 
to be, for I like little girls with glossy black curls,” 
she said, stroking her hair gently. 

Lord Ross bade the children get in the carriage, 
as he told Daphne that Lady Ross would be very 
much troubled until her return. 

Lady Ross was indeed glad when she saw her 
darling safe and sound. Her first words when she 
had alighted from the carriage were : “Oh, mamma, 
Rupert and I have found just the dearest play- 
mate in the world; and besides this, he saved my 
life. Don’t you think I ought to like him very 
much for this ? I do, and Rupert thinks so too, and 
he would not accept any money. Papa tried to get 


78 the: Bari, ot rossviu^ hau, 

him to take the money, and he would not, but I 
gave him my picture, and he accepted that/' 

“You did what ?” Lady Ross exclaimed. 

“I gave him my picture, and oh, he was so glad, 
and said he would like that better than all the 
money. Now don't you think he is a real hero? 
And he has such a pretty name — Kenton Lorrimer. 
Don't you think it lovely, mamma ? And he is Uncle 
Roger's nephew, and Uncle Roger has gone to the 
Indies, and is coming back wealthy. And then there 
is Mrs. Lorrimer, who is just a lovely lady, and 
Essie, that is Kenton's sister. We mean to be real 
good friends, and so does Rupert and Kenton." So 
the child talked on and on, never tiring, her father 
smiling at her earnestness and telling her she was a 
chatterbox. 

When they had left Mrs. Lorrimer's, Kenton 
said : “Oh ! Mamma, isn't she the sweetest girl you 
ever saw? And I do< like her brother so, and just 
would not part with this picture." 

“Yes," said his mother, “she is a little darling. 
But why did you not accept the money, Kenton ?" 

“I did not want any money for saving the little 
girl's life. I really did not, mamma. Do you think 
I should have taken it? If I had taken the money, I 
should not have had this little picture, and I am sure 
I like it better than money. Did you wish me to 
take the money?" 

“No, my son," she replied, “you did perfectly 
right. I only asked you this to try you. I am 
proud of my brave, noble boy and I am glad to 
know he has such excellent qualities." 


THD DART OT ROSSVITTD HATT 79 

“Well, mamma, you have always told me to do as 
my feelings prompt me to do, for they would never 
prompt one to do anything wrong. So my feelings 
would not let me take the money. Something 
seemed to whisper in my ear, ‘Do not take it. It 
will not be the right thing to do/ so I refused. I 
thought of the comfort you could enjoy if I ac- 
cepted it, but I could not ; and see what I have gained 
by following the feelings of my own heart,” he said, 
holding up the locket, “that is worth more money 
to me than Lord Ross is really worth.” 

“Today’s experience is like a chapter in a novel,” 
Essie said. She had been a silent listener. “Ken- 
ton acting as the hero and Daphne as the heroine.” 

“She is a real little heroine/’ Kenton exclaimed, 
“to cling to that bush as she did. I am sure 
I could not have done that ; but, Essie, I’ll tell you 
what, I’m glad I happened along in such good 
time.” 

“Yes, it was indeed a great thing that you did 
happen along,” she said. 

“And wouldn’t that have been terrible,” he re- 
plied. “I don’t like to think of that part of it. I 
just like to look at this picture, and know she is 
alive and well and think that I can see her real 
often.” 


CHAPTER IX 


It has been two months since Daphne Ross was 
rescued from the river by Kenton. She and Rupert 
and Kenton have become fast friends and playmates. 
Lady Ross hardly liked this and she told Lord Ross 
so. She said that she did not like to have her chil- 
dren play with children of such low birth. But 
when Daphne and Rupert reminded her that if it 
had not been for Kenton Lorrimer Daphne would 
have been drowned, she said nothing more. Daphne 
said she just could not see why her mamma did not 
want her and Rupert to play with Kenton Lorrimer, 
for she was sure Kenton was the nicest boy in Eng- 
land, next to Rupert. 

Kenton, of course, did not know that Lady Ross 
did not like her children to know the Lorrimers. 
Had he known it, though he would have regretted 
very much to- do so, he would have given up his 
friendship for Daphne and Rupert. 

As the Christmas holidays came on Daphne told 
Rupert that she intended to give Kenton Lorrimer 
the nicest present she could find, and asked him to 
help her think what she should get. When she was 
a little puzzled over anything she always went to 
Rupert, and he always thought of the very best 
thing to do each time. But Rupert was a little 
puzzled himself this time. He told Daphne that he 
just could not think of anything suitable. 

Finally, Rupert exclaimed: “My! but I have it 


THE) E)ARI, OT ROSSVIUvE) HAIAv 


8l 


now, Daphne! Let’s you and I go partners and get 
him a gold watch.” 

“That’s the very thing,” she said. “I declare, 
Rue, I don’t really see how I could do without you ! 
I never should have thought of that, but it is just 
the very thing I wanted to think of. If I didn’t you 
did, and that was just as well as if I had.” 

“I wonder what papa will say to this?” Rupert 
exclaimed. Suppose we go ask him, Daphne?” 
And they hurried to the library to consult Lord 
Ross. 

It was just a week before Christmas. Essie had 
grown very melancholy and sad as the holidays 
drew near, for she remembered that it was on 
Christmas that she was to have been married. She 
would go off in some little quiet nook and think of 
her absent lover for hours and hours without seem- 
ing to know anything that was passing around her. 
She could not keep up that cheerful countenance she 
had assumed the first few days of his absence. Mrs. 
Lorrimer’s kind words of cheer could not help her 
now. She could think of no one but Claude. “Oh ! 
my darling,” she would murmur, “how can I ever 
live those three endless years !” 

But on this day she seemed more dejected than 
ever. Suddenly Kenton rushed into the room and 
exclaimed, “A letter for Essie, and I’ll wager it is 
from Claude.” 

“Oh! give it to me,” she said hopefully, “if it 
only is from Claude. Oh ! if it only is !” 

Kenton left the room and Essie exclaimed, as she 
6 


8 2 


TH £ ^ARIv OT ROSSVIIJvS HAIyL 


broke the seal : “Thank God, who does all things 
well, it is from him !” And she read : 

“My Own Precious Little: Essie: : — It is with a 
sad and aching heart I write you. It makes me sad 
to think how miserable I have caused you to be, and 
it causes my heart to ache when I think that I must 
remain here so many long months. I found Uncle 
Roger in the best of spirits and enjoying life as 
well as could be expected way out here. Of course 
it is useless for me to tell you he was surprised at 
seeing me in the Indies. The first thing he wanted 
to know was why I had left you ? But when I gave 
my reasons he said that I did just the right thing. 

“Uncle Roger is succeeding very well and I hope 
I shall be as successful as he. If I should have such 
luck, I can possibly get back to* England sooner than 
I first thought. But before I go any farther I must 
tell you what an experience I had on the ocean. 

“After being sick for three days, sick enough 
almost to die, I ventured on deck one evening, and 
noticed that the clouds were gathering up in the 
west. I mentioned this to one of the passengers, 
and he said that without any doubt we should have 
a storm, as this was a good locality for storms. We 
could see a few flashes of lightning now and then, 
and the captain shouted to the men to haul down the 
foresail and topsails. I remained on deck till the 
rain began to fall, and then went below. The 
storm now began in earnest and the vessel rocked 
to and fro. Of course I beg*an to think, suppose she 
should sink, and my thoughts went back to England 


THE) £ARI, OF ROSSVIIvIvF HAIA, 


83 


with a bound. What would become of my little 
Essie if I* should be drowned? Would she hear of 
my death or would she think I had played her 
false? The thought almost drove me crazy, and 
rising I started to go on deck again. But when I 
reached the hatchway there was such a blinding 
flash of lightning and sheet of rain that it drove me 
below again. The vessel groaned and creaked as if 
she would split in two any moment. If it had not 
been for that little girl waiting for me at home I 
don’t think I should have minded it in the least. 
But your words kept ringing in my ear above the 
fury of the storm, ‘What if we should never meet 
again!’ But I made up my mind to trust in God, 
who doeth all things well, and when I had done this 
I felt better. The tempest lasted all night. How 
the vessel stood the storm I can never tell. But she 
did and that is enough for me. 

“The weather was fine after this until I reached 
the Indies. This is a fine country and sometimes I 
think were it not for that little girl at home I should 
like to stay here all my life. But when I think of 
you, I know that no other place than England shall 
ever be my home. How I miss that sweet little face 
of yours! Sometimes I fancy I can see you just as 
you were the last time I saw you, standing by the 
gate watching me out of sight, and even then try- 
ing to smile through your tears. 

“Do you know, Essie dear, when I turned and 
saw you standing there, it did take all my courage to 
leave you ? I would give the world to be with you 
tonight. But all I can do is look at your picture 


84 THE EARL 0 E rossville hall 

and that little curl you gave me. Nothing would 
cause me to part with these precious things — your 
picture and the pretty curl. Essie, I hope you do 
not miss me so very much, for I had rather hear of 
you being happy than hear anything you could tell 
me. Do try to be happy. Will you, dear? I can 
not tell you I am happy, but should like so much to 
hear that you are. Why was it, oh! why was it, 
that we two should have been parted? I hope it 
will all come out right. Why could things not have 
remained just as they were when I first met you? 
If they only had, I should not have been so far 
away from my darling tonight. 

“Perhaps you were right, Essie, after all, when 
you said it was unlucky to set one of the Christmas 
holidays as our wedding day, for it proved true 
after all. If it has not proved unlucky for us, I can- 
not tell the reason why. I cannot spend a pleasant 
Christmas, but I hope that you may. But will you 
think of me on that day? But why should I ask 
this? I know my little Essie thinks of me every 
day, don’t you, dear? And if I should try to tell 
you how often I have thought of you since I left 
you, I should say ‘only once,’ but that ‘once’ is all 
the time. 

“Essie, have you become acquainted with the 
Earl’s family? If so, how do you like them? For 
I am sure they are good people. I should like so 
much to see those two children, Daphne especially. 
I think that is what the Earl called her. I think 
from her name I should like her. Well, my dear, I 
suppose it is time for me to close this, as there is 


the: IjARIy OR ROSSVITTE: HALL 85 

nothing interesting to tell you. Give my best love 
to your mother and Kenton, and tell them I should 
like so much to see them. Uncle Roger sends much 
love to all. And now, my darling, I must bid you 
good-by for this time. I hope I shall have better 
news to write next time. Please, darling, answer 
this immediately. And remember, I am as true to 
you as the angels are in Heaven. I love you just 
the same. 

“From your ever faithful and devoted lover, 

“Claude:.” 

When Essie had finished reading, she sat for a 
long time with her hands folded and her thoughts 
far away in the Indies. Then Mrs. Lorrimer came 
into the room and said, “How is Claude, Essie 
dear? Kenton tells me you have a letter from 
him.” 

“He is all right, mamma, but he does wish to be 
back in old England so- much. He sends you and 
Kenton his love and respects, so does Uncle Roger.” 

“I suppose Roger was surprised at seeing Claude 
in the Indies ?” she asked. 

“Yes,” Essie replied, “though he told him he did 
just the right thing. But, oh! mamma, this letter 
makes me want to see Claude more than ever ! And 
just to think that only two months have gone since 
he left me. It seems two' years. How will it be at 
the end of two years?” 

“Perhaps time will not go by so slow when you 
become accustomed to his absence,” Mrs. Lorrimer 
said. 


86 


TH£ BARI, OF ROSSVIUvB HAL,!, 


“Mamma, I shall never become accustomed to his 
absence, for I miss him more each day.” 

“I am sorry,” Mrs. Lorrimer said, “that you did 
not continue the way you started the first few days, 
for I am sure it would have been better than this 
gloomy state of mind.” 

“Yes, mamma, I know, but I could not, and I 
think I must die of loneliness if he does not soon 
come back. Were you ever parted from papa?” 

“No, Essie,” her mother replied, “we were never 
parted until death parted us. And I am sure that 
was worse than your parting, Essie, for we can 
never meet on earth again, and you and Claude will 
meet again. Suppose it had been death that robbed 
you of your lover? It would have been so' very 
much worse.” 

“Yes, mamma, I know that would be worse, but if 
you have never experienced a parting like this, you 
cannot know what it is like. It is possible that we 
may meet again, and it is just as probable that we 
may not. But if we do not, I am sure I shall not 
care to live, for what pleasure would there be in 
living without my Claude?” 

“It is true, Essie, there would not be any more 
pleasure in this world for you. But don’t think that 
way, you must be hopeful.” 

“Hoping will not bring him back, mamma, any 
more than tears,” Essie replied, sadly, “for if either 
would bring him back he would have come long 
before this. But I cannot blame Claude. For he 
could not help the way circumstances shaped them- 
selves any more than I. He tries to put all the blame 


THE) EARI, Otf ROSSVIIvIvE haix 8 7 

on himself, but I will not have it so. I do not 
blame him at all, do you, mamma?” 

“No, I do not in the least/’ she replied, “for I 
know it was best for him to go.” 

“I am very glad you think that way,” Essie re- 
plied, “for I did not want to* censure Claude. I 
mean to answer Claude’s letter this very night,” she 
exclaimed, “so as to get it off on the next steamer, 
for he asked me to write immediately.” 

That night she did write Claude a long, loving 
letter, telling him how much she missed him, and 
how very lonely and sad she had been. She told 
him that if all was to go over again, she should beg 
him not to leave her, but as he was gone, she would 
not ask him to return until he was willing. And she 
wrote about the Earl’s family, and bade him tell 
Uncle Roger that Daphne still remembered the old 
gentleman whom she had learned to call “Uncle 
Roger,” and how much she and Rupert seemed to 
think of Kenton, and about Kenton’s saving 
Daphne’s life. 

In fact, she told him everything that had passed 
since he left home, and after sending Uncle Roger 
many loving messages she asked him to do as she 
had done and write very soon to- his own faithful 
little Essie. 

And now let us go in the same steamer with this 
letter, and find how Claude and Mr. Lorrimer are 
prospering in the far East. 

* * * * 

The moon shines brightly on this far-away land, 
and its beams light up the room in which Claude and 


88 


the) e)art ot rossviUvE) haul 


Uncle Roger are seated, close by the door of their 
little hut, Mr. Lorrimer is saying, “Claude, my 
mind keeps straying back to England to-night, and 
to Essie. I can’t help thinking there’s a letter from 
some of them.” 

“So do I,” Claude replies. “I think I will go and 
see if there is not. Probably there is one for you, 
Uncle Roger, from Kenton. I am hardly expecting 
any from Essie so soon as this. Dear little Essie,” 
he sighed, “what would I not give to be with you 
to-night ?” And taking her picture from his pocket 
he gazes at it long and earnestly, then returns it to 
his pocket and rises to leave the room. He soon re- 
turns and Uncle Roger can tell by the look of joy 
on his face that he has news from England. “What 
a joyful surprise, Uncle Roger!” he exclaims. “A 
letter from Essie !” And seating himself by the little 
table he is soon lost in its pages. 

He read the letter, then reread it again and again, 
and then, placing it in his pocket, he folds his arms 
on the table and bowing his head on his arms, he 
thinks about home and England. Essie’s letter has 
made him very sad. He can hardly bear the 
thought of Essie, his little light-hearted Essie, so 
sad and gloomy. Had he broken her heart? “I do 
so wish to see you, but I will not ask you to return 
until you are willing.” With these words on his 
lips, his head bowed on the table, he falls into a deep 
sleep, and dreams of that same little face with the 
pleading blue eyes which had haunted him so> the 
night before he left England. 


TH£ e art ot rossvitte; hatt 89 

“My little darling,” he murmured, “my dear little 
Essie.” 

“The lad is dreaming of Essie,” said Uncle 
Roger, soberly, to himself. “It affects him very 
much to get a letter from her. I have never heard 
him talking in his sleep before.” 

And then Uncle Roger, too, thinking of England, 
and of his youthful days, when he had loved as this 
young man loves now, and, taking a golden curl 
from his big pocketbook, he gazes at it awhile and 
presses it to his lips, murmuring, “Lorraine, dear 
Lorraine. A little golden-haired lass when I knew 
her, but an angel now.” 

Uncle Roger looks very much the same as he did 
when he left England, but Claude hardly looks the 
same. He looks as if years instead of months had 
passed. There are shadows under his eyes, and his 
face looks much older. 


CHAPTER X. 


It was Christmas morning. The day broke bright 
and clear. A heavy snow had fallen the night be- 
fore and the merry tinkling of sleigh bells could be 
heard far and near. Of all the happy children in 
England, Kenton Lorrimer was one of the hap- 
piest, for he found a package pushed up against 
the front door. On picking it up he saw that his 
own name was written on the outside. 

“A Christmas present, Fll wager,” he exclaimed. 
“Who has had the good will toward me to do this.” 
He opened it and what was his surprise to< find in a 
pretty plush box a beautiful gold watch and chain. 

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Essie! Mamma, look! 
Can it be really for me?” 

“Isn’t it lovely?” exclaimed Essie and Mrs. Lor- 
rimer in the same breath. 

“But where did it come from, Kenton?” his 
mother asked. 

“I cannot imagine,” he replied. “But I would 
like to know.” 

As he took it out of the box a little paper fluttered 
down, and seizing it Kenton read : “A Christmas 
present, from Rupert and Daphne Ross, to their very 
dear and honored friend, Kenton Lorrimer.” 

“Well now,” he exclaimed, “if they are not just 
the best friends I have! My! But don’t I wish I 
had something fine to give them! That is what 
comes of being poor.” 

“I am sure they did not expect anything in 


the: SART OF ROSSVIIvIvF hatt 91 

return,” Essie said; “and I am sure I would not 
trouble about that.” 

“Don't I wish I could see them now, to thank 
them. And I will just wear Daphne's picture on 
the chain,” and, rising, he went for the locket and 
fastened it to the chain. 

“Now,” he said, “isn't that lovely? I said a 
moment ago I was poor, but I'm rich ! I shall never 
complain of being poor any more so long as I have 
this dear little picture, anyway.” 

At this moment a tinkling of sleigh bells was 
heard and Rupert and Daphne Ross ran up the path 
to the house. 

“Oh! it's you all, is it?” exclaimed Kenton. 
“The very ones I was wishing to see! I want to 
thank you for — ” 

But they interrupted him. 

“Now you just come and get right in this sleigh 
and go sleigh-riding. We will not let you thank us 
until we are started.” 

“Oh ! but I must do that first.” 

“No,” said Daphne, “you just come right along. 
We are in a hurry and we don't want any thanks 
anyway.” 

So seizing his cap, Kenton rushed out of the 
room with them, and they were soon lost to sight 
down the snow-drifted road. 

Happy days of childhood ! Why is it that people 
cannot always remain light-hearted and gay? As 
the years roll on sorrow comes and despair and the 
children who were once so happy and gay, grown 
up to be sober and sad-faced men and women. 


92 the Eare oe rossvieeE hate 

But to Essie the Christmas day seemed very 
lonely, for her thoughts strayed away to the far 
East, with that absent dear one. 

“Mamma, things are turning out for the best after 
all,” she said to Mrs. Lorrimer, when the chil- 
dren had gone. “See how very happy Kenton is! 
And had it not been for those Ross children coming 
to the Hall, he would not have been so happy. But, 
oh, mamma,” and she sighed heavily, “how utterly 
lonely I am! It hardly seems as if the dear old 
Christmas-tide was here ! I should like to know so 
much how my dear Claude is to-day and what he is 
doing.” 

Kenton returned in two or three hours, looking 
fresh and rosy after his brisk ride in the cold De- 
cember wind, and declared he had never enjoyed 
himself more in all his life, and that he knew 
Daphne was just the sweetest, dearest little girl he 
knew, and the loveliest. 

“Why, Kenton, have you discovered that you like 
Daphne the better?” Essie asked. “You were say- 
ing this morning you really could not tell which you 
liked the better.” 

“Yes, I think I do,” he replied. “I don’t like her 
in the way I do Rupert, and I suppose I must think 
the more of her. But I am very fond of Rupert, 
too, for he has been so kind to me. Why ! it was 
he who suggested giving me this watch. Daphne 
wanted to give me a real nice Christmas present and 
just could not think what it should be. And, as she 
always does when she gets puzzled, she went to 
‘Rue/ and he suggested that they go in partners 


THE) E)ART OT ROSSVIIvIvE: HAU, 


93 


and get me the watch. Daphne told me all about it 
this morning. We sat on the back seat and Rupert 
sat on the front seat and drove. Til tell you what, 
it’s jolly, mamma, to go sleigh-riding with a pretty 
girl. And oh ! mamma, Rupert upset the sleigh and 
tumbled us all out in a snow-drift ! Daphne says she 
does love to sleigh-ride and I’ 11 tell you I do, too, 
especially when I can go with Daphne and Rupert. 
And, mamma, Rupert says he is going away to 
school after this year, and don’t I wish I could go 
with him ? He says that he would give the world if 
I would go, and may I go ? Mamma, it will be so 
very lonely when Rupert goes away.” 

“I would like you to go ever so much, Kenton,” 
his mother replied. “But I am afraid I cannot 
afford to send you.” 

“Oh, don’t tell me that, mamma ! I do want to go 
so much!” Kenton replied, sorrowfully. 

“Well, do not look so dejected,” his mother re- 
plied, “for God always provides for His own. Pos- 
sibly He will provide some way for you to go.” 

Kenton brightened up at this and said, “Mamma, 
if I only knew where I could find work, I should 
go to work at once, and I could soon earn money 
enough.” 

“Yes, my son,” she replied, “but I really don’t see 
where you can find any work.” 

Then he fell to talking of the sleigh-ride again 
and did not let the money question trouble him. He 
had many more pleasant rides like this during the 
holidays, for the snow lasted a week. 

Kenton told Rupert that Mrs. Lorrimer was will- 


94 


The: E)ART OT ROSSYIIvLE: halt 


ill g enough for him to go to school, but could not 
spare the money, and Rupert said : “If you had 
only taken the money papa wished you to, there 
would have been no' obstacle.” 

“No, Rupert, I should like to go to school ever so 
much, but I am glad I did not take the money. If 
the same thing was to be done again I should do ex- 
actly as I did then.’’ 

“Well, perhaps you are right, after all,” Rupert 
replied, “and I think I like you all the better for it.” 

“Thank you,” Kenton replied, “and I am sure I 
was right. Now, Rue, you just look at it this way. 
Suppose you had saved my sister from being 
drowned. Do you think you would take money 
for it?” 

“No,” Rupert replied, “I should not.” 

“And I was just the same way,” Kenton said. “I 
did not want money for that. But I do* want to 
work and earn enough so* I can go* to> school with 
you.” 

“And I hope you may,” Rupert replied. “I know 
papa would loan you enough, and then let you 
repay it in your own time, but you are so proud, you 
would not accept it, would you ?” 

“No,” Kenton replied, “I don’t think I should.” 

And when Rupert told Lord Ross how much 
Kenton desired to gO' with him to school and how he 
wished to earn money enough to carry him through, 
Lord Ross said, “Why, he is the very lad I need, if 
he is willing to leave home. I need a boy in my 
bank, and as I should like to repay him some way 
for the great service he has done me, I think I shall 


THIS £ART 0£ ROSSVIIvL/E. HAI.lv 95 

go over tomorrow and find out if his mother is 
willing to have him work for me. I will pay him 
well for I am sure he is honor itself/’ 

So Lord Ross rode over to Mrs. Lorrimer’ s the 
very next day and told his plan to Mrs. Lorrimer. 
She was willing and then Lord Ross told Kenton 
that he was very much in need of a boy in his bank 

in the town of S , and that he thought he was 

the boy he needed, as he could trust him in any way. 
Kenton accepted the situation and Lord Ross asked 
him when he could be ready to go to work. Kenton 
replied that he was ready at any moment. 

“That is the kind of a boy I like,” said the Earl, 
“one who is always ready. If it is agreeable with 
your mother, you can start next Monday.” 

Mrs. Lorrimer assented and it was arranged that 

he should go to the town of S and commence 

work on the following Monday. 

“What glorious luck,” said Kenton, when Lord 
Ross had gone. “Now, mamma, I can soon earn 
enough money to go with Rupert to school. A way 
was provided for me to earn money sooner than I 
was expecting.” 

“Yes, Kenton,” Mrs. Lorrimer replied. “But I 
am afraid you cannot earn money enough this year 
to go with Rupert.” 

“But. mamma, I can gO’ until what money I have 
earned is exhausted, then I can work again and go 
until that is gone, and continue in this way until I 
finish my education.” 

“I suppose you will have to do that way,” she 
replied. 


g6 TH£ EARIv of rossvi^e hau, 

“Mamma, I hate to leave you and Essie here alone. 

Of course it isn’t so very far to the town of S , 

but you will be alone just the same. But I mean to 
come home every Saturday night and stay over 
Sunday. Then there is Daphne. My, but I hate to 
leave Daphne and Rupert ! But then when I think 
that I can earn money, I don’t mind it so much.” 

Monday morning came and Kenton was estab- 
lished in his new duties as messenger boy at Lord 
Ross’s bank. He soon learned what his duties were 
and on the following Saturday when Lord Ross 
went over to the town, he called at the bank to see 
how Kenton liked his new situation. He found him 
in the highest spirits, and he declared that he liked 
it better every day. Mr. Eperson, the acting presi- 
dent and teller of the bank, told Lord Ross that 
Kenton was the liveliest errand boy they had ever 
had since he came there. He said Kenton did his 
work quickly and intelligently. Lord Ross waited 
till Kenton could leave the bank, and they took the 
next train back to Rossville. A carriage was at the 
station to meet Lord Ross, and he invited Kenton to 
ride with him. 

When they stopped at Mrs. Lorrimer’s, the Earl 
told Mrs. Lorrimer that he was well pleased with 
her son, and that they gave an excellent report of 
him at the bank. She told the Earl she could never 
thank him sufficiently for giving Kenton the situa- 
tion, but the Earl said he should be the one to give 
the thanks, for he could never repay Kenton for 
the great service he had done him, and that he 
needed just such a boy as Kenton and was sure he 


T H£ £ARI, OF ROSSVIUvF HAIvIv 


97 


could not have obtained one that suited him so well. 
Kenton had so much to tell his mother and Essie, 
and so much to tell Rupert and Daphne, that it did 
not seem very long until Monday morning came 
again. Rupert said that he would like ever so much 
to have a situation like that, but his mother would 
not hear of it. But when he got to be a man he 
meant to go into business just as his father had 
done; for he was sure it was better to work than 
to play. And so the boys planned that when they 
were men they would go into business as partners, 
and Daphne, who thought she must be in everything 
Rupert was in, said she meant to learn to be a book- 
keeper, so as to keep books for them, and asked 
them if she might. They told her of course they 
would need a bookkeeper and she would be the very 
one for that. And all Rupert and Daphne could talk 
and think of for the next fortnight was when Rupert 
and Kenton should be partners in business with 
Daphne as their bookkeeper. 

“My ! But won’t that sound high, ‘Lorrimer and 
Ross, Bankers/ or ‘Merchants,’ or whatever we 
shall be. I really don’t know which I would rather 
be. I guess I would rather be a banker, for I am 
sure Kenton would like that best.” 

Rupert often told his father that he would never 
care to be an earl ; that he would sooner not be an 
earl than to be one. And he said when Lord Ross 
died, he would much rather that poor young man 
who had gone to the Indies should have the earl- 
dom than he. Lady Ross could hardly bear the 
7 


98 the: kart ok rossvittK hatt 

thought of this. She said when Lord Ross died she 
wanted Rupert and no one else to be earl ; that she 
would very likely not be living at that time, but if 
she were not, she wished Rupert to be a lord, and 
then Rupert would say, “But, mamma, I really do 
not wish to be an earl. I think people are much 
happier when they are poor, than when they are so 
rich. There is Kenton Lorrimer, he is happy all 
the time, just as happy as I, and see how poor he is.” 

“Yes,” said Lady Ross, “and I suppose he is the 
one who is putting all these absurd notions in your 
head. I think you and Daphne have a perfect pas- 
sion for such poor, low people.” And then Daphne 
would chime in, “Why! mamma, how can you say 
that about Kenton, when he saved my life? I am 
sure if he is poor, that does not prevent his being 
good and kind. Why, I love him like a brother. I 
think almost as much of Kenton as I do of Rupert.” 

“Yes,” Lady Ross replied, “that’s what comes of 
you and Rupert being with the boy all the time. I 
told your father I did not like you and Rupert to be 
together so much.” 

“But, mamma,” said Rupert, “Kenton Lorrimer is 
just as good as I am. He is as honorable as he is 
kind. I have never seen him do a mean thing. Of 
course, he cannot help being poor. And, mamma, 
please forgive me for saying this, but I think you 
are very ungrateful to Kenton.” 

“What! Rupert, tell your own mother she is 
ungrateful? You are a very impertinent child and 
you must not say such a thing again.” 

“Well, mamma, I am sorry if I said anything 


the: E)ART od rossvittd hatt 


99 


rude. I am only telling you what I think about 
Kenton Lorrimer.” 

“I am grateful to the boy for saving Daphne’s 
life,” Lady Ross replied, coldly, “but that is no 
reason I should think him your equal. Your father 
offered him money for his trouble, which I think 
was sufficient, without offering him our friendship. 
It really makes my heart ache to see you and 
Daphne so taken up with the boy.” 

Daphne would not stay to hear Kenton censured 
any longer and went to practice on a new ballad 
which she meant to play for him the next time he 
came to the Hall. She did love to sing and play for 
him, and see his eyes sparkle with pleasure. She 
thought he had the brightest, most expressive eyes 
she had ever seen. One moment they could be dim 
with tears and the next sparkling with fun. He 
would compliment her music and tell her she could 
sing like a mockingbird. This would please her 
very much, and she would tell him when she became 
a good musician, she meant to turn teacher and 
teach him. Kenton always thanked her and told 
her he thought she should find it a very tiresome 
task, but Daphne would tell him she was sure he 
could learn real fast, for he could sing as well as 
Rupert now. Kenton told her that Essie had often 
tried to teach him how to play, but he was such a 
“booby” she did not have very good success, but 
that he knew Daphne would make such a darling 
teacher he could not help learning a little at least. 
And Daphne would laugh and tell him he must not 
turn flatterer, that if he did she should not teach 
him at all. 


Lore. 


CHAPTER XI 


Kenton had been working at the bank some three 
months when one evening as he was going to his 
boarding place, he saw a street Arab snatch a little 
flower girl's purse and run with it. Kenton gave 
chase, and taking the purse from the boy, he told 
him he needed a good thrashing, and if he were not 
so small, he, Kenton, would give it to him. And 
after telling him never to be guilty of anything like 
that again, Kenton returned the purse to the little 
girl, who was weeping bitterly. “Don't cry, little 
girl," said Kenton, kindly, “for I have taken your 
purse from the little ruffian. It was very wicked in 
him to snatch it from you." 

The little girl dried her eyes and looked up at 
him and said, “Oh ! I am so glad, for if I had lost it 
Mrs. Miller would have beat me very hard." 

“How glad I am that I came along then," he said. 
“But who is Mrs. Miller?" 

“She is the woman I live with." 

“And what is your name?" he asked, “and where 
do you live?" 

“My name is Dorothy Donald and I live over on 
Decker street." 

“Why, that is the way I live, too," he said. 
“Suppose we walk on together and you tell me 
about yourself. You said Mrs. Miller would beat 
you ; is she not good to you ?" 

“No," she replied, “she is far from good to me. 
She makes me work out all day and sell flowers, and 


THE) SARI, OS ROSSVIUvS HASS 


IOI 


she takes the money and buys gin with it, and if I 
do not sell any, she beats me and says I am idle and 
good for nothing, when I am sure I sell all I can. 
She doesn’t give me anything to eat except a little 
bread and milk, and sometimes I get so hungry I 
can hardly walk the streets and carry my basket. I 
sometimes think I would not care if I should die.” 

“Are you hungry now ?” Kenton asked. 

“Yes,” she replied; “I am very hungry, I have 
not eaten anything since early this morning, and not 
much then.” 

“Well,” said Kenton, “here is some money and 
you must buy you a good meal with it.” 

“No,” she said, “there is no need to give me any 
money, for Mrs. Miller would take it from me, and 
I would rather you would keep it than to have her 
get it.” 

“Well, I will tell you what to do,” he said. “There 
is a restaurant down the street here, and you just 
come along down there and we will get a good, sub- 
stantial meal.” 

“No,” she said, “I should like to ever so much, 
but if Mrs. Miller should ever find it out, she would 
scold me.” 

“But she won’t know,” he said. “So come 
along.” 

He finally persuaded her to go, and ordering some 
coffee and meat and potatoes, he told her to sit down 
and eat. She did, eating as if she were nearly fam- 
ished. When she had finished, they left the restau- 
rant and Kenton asked her why she stayed with 
Mrs. Miller, if she was not good to her. 


102 


the) e)art ot rossviixe) hait* 


“I would not stay with her if I had any other 
place to stay/' 

“How came you to be with this wicked old 
woman?” Kenton asked. “Can you not remember 
your mother ?” 

“I can not remember very much about her?” she 
said. “But I have a kind of a memory of a woman 
with lovely gray eyes, who used to 1 call me pet 
names. I suppose she must have been my mother. 
Mrs. Miller says she and my mother were living in 
the same tenement house together when mother was 
sick and that when she died, she asked Mrs. Miller 
to take care of me. She often tells me this and tells 
me I am ungrateful for all the trouble I have been 
to her. I can’t see what trouble I have ever been 
to her. She doesn’t work any, and what I earn 
would be enough to keep us in food if she did not 
spend it for drink.” 

“Poor little girl,” said Kenton, compassionately, 
“I mean to come and see you some day. Maybe I 
can find you a better home. If I can I shall come 
for you? Would you go with me?” 

“I would go with almost any one to get away 
from Mrs. Miller; and oh l I should be so glad to 
go. Do you really think you could find me a better 
home?” she asked, eagerly. 

“Oh! I don’t want to raise any false hopes,” he 
replied. “I just said it was probable I might find 
you a better home, and I am sure I mean to try, for 
I like you, little girl.” 

“And I like you,” she said. “I am sure you have 


THK DARI, OD ROSSVIDDD HAU, 


103 


a kind heart, and I thank you ever so much for your 
kindness to me. What is your name?” 

“My name is Kenton Lorrimer,” he said. “I will 
write it down, and if Mrs. Miller drives you away, 
you just call at the Union Bank and ask for me and 
I will help you out some way.” 

“Thank you,” she said. “You are very kind, but 
there is no danger of her driving me away so long 
as she can make me work for her.” 

They now came to a street corner and she stopped 
and said : 

“I must go this way now. I think you had better 
not go any farther, for if she should see you with 
me, she would scold me. She doesn’t like me to 
talk with any one. She seems to think I know some 
secrets of hers, and she is afraid I will tell.” 

“No,” said Kenton; “maybe she won’t see me, 
and I am afraid some bad little boy might get your 
purse after all, so I think I’ll go with you.” 

“Well, we must not talk any more, then,” she 
said, and they walked on in silence till they came to 
an old, dilapidated house which stood in a remote 
part of the city. 

Just before they reached the gate, a rough-look- 
ing old woman came to the door, and looking down 
the street said angrily: “So here you are at last! 
What did you stay so late for?” and then looking at 
Kenton, she said, “And you’ve brought a beau with 
you! That is nice, now, I think,” and, seizing her 
rudely by the arm, she pulled her in the house, ask- 
ing her what she meant by such doings as that ? 

“Well, Mrs. Miller, a boy snatched my purse and 


104 


TH £ E)ARIy 0£ R0SSVIU,E) HAI.lv 


this boy took it from him and brought it back 
to me.” 

“Well, what of that? That was no reason why 
you should bring him all the way here/’ 

“But, Mrs. Miller, he would come anyway, for he 
said he was afraid some one would take my purse 
after all.” 

“Now look here,” she said, roughly, “I don’t 
want this to happen again,” and turning to Kenton, 
said: “We don’t need any more of your service, 
and I’d thank you to go.” 

“Good-by, Dorothy,” said Kenton. Raising his 
cap and turning, he left them, but when he had gone 
down the street a short distance he turned and 
watched them. 

No sooner had Kenton gone than the old woman 
snatched the purse, and, emptying the contents in 
her hand, she threw the purse at Dorothy’s head, and 
said: “You worthless little vagabond, is this all?” 
and pushing her rudely in, she slammed the door 
and started to 1 the grog shop. The poor child went 
to sleep on a pile of straw in the corner, without any 
supper. But thanks to Kenton Lorrimer’s kind 
heart, she was not hungry for once in her life. 

Kenton was very much grieved over what the 
little girl had told him, and he began to ponder upon 
what he had told her about getting her a better 
home. He should not have told her his intentions, 
he thought, for now she would have some little hope 
and if he could not get a place for her then her 
hopes would be blighted. But could he get another 
home for her? Perhaps Mrs. Lynn, his landlady, 


THE) I)ARI* OD ROSSVII*I*D HAI*I* 105 

could take her. Then, when he thought about it, he 
knew she would not, for she had three little girls of 
her own. Then the thought came to him, what if 
his mother should be willing to take her to live with 
them? And as this was Friday, he resolved to ask 
his mother the very next day. 

When he reached home the following night he 
told his mother of the poor little girl and asked her 
if she did not think they could take her? 

“Why, Kenton/’ his mother replied, “how could 
we do that, as poor as we are?” 

“I know that, mamma,” he said, “but we are not 
one-half so poor as this little girl, and I am sure if 
you had seen how pitiable she looked, and how her 
face brightened when I told her I could possibly 
find her a better home, you would not hesitate to say 
she might come. Mamma,” he said, desperately, “I 
did so want to go to school, but I’ll give up going 
and give you the money to provide for her with.” 

Mrs. Lorrimer was kind-hearted, and when 
Kenton begged so earnestly she could hardly say no. 

“I am willing and would be glad to help the 
poor child,” she said, “but how can I, Kenton? We 
could not possibly do it, unless you gave up going 
to school, and I did so want you to go; but if you 
are willing, I suppose I cannot say no. But re- 
member, if you do this, you must give up all hopes 
of going to school.” 

“I do hate to give up going,” he said, “but when 
I think of that poor little girl, I do not mind so 
much. So I want to bring her with me next Satur- 
day.” 


106 TH£ E^ARIv OF ROSSVIIvIyE) hau. 

On the following Monday after Kenton was 
through with his duties at the bank, he went down 
Dexter street, thinking he might by chance see 
Dorothy. And sure enough, he did see her, with 
her little basket on her arm, making her way among 
the other dirty-looking little children of the street. 
He walked rapidly till he came up with her. She 
had her old flabby sunbonnet pulled down and she 
did not see him till he touched her on the arm. 

“Hello! little girl, I did not have much trouble 
in finding you.” 

“Oh! It is you,” she said, “is it?” 

“Yes, it is I,” he replied, “and I have some good 
news for you. I have found you another home.” 

“Another home,” she repeated. “Another home? 
Oh ! I'm so glad, so very glad,” and she grasped his 
hand fervently. 

“Yes,” he said, “I have found you another home. 
My mother said you might come and stay with us.” 

“Stay with you?” she replied. “You, who have 
been so kind to me ?” 

“Yes,” he replied. “My home is out from the 
city a few miles, near the village of Rossville, and 
you must meet me somewhere next Saturday even- 
ing. I will come for you and we will go right 
straight on to my mother's. Do you think you wifi- 
have very much trouble in getting away from Mrs. 
Miller?” 

“No, I don't think I will,” she replied, “for she 
will be drunk, I suppose, as she is every Saturday 
evening.” 

“Well,” said Kenton, “you wait for me here on 


the) dart or rossvitte) hatt 


107 


this corner, and I will be certain to come for you. 
If any one passes whom you know or who will be 
likely to know you, you must get out of the way 
before they see you.” 

“Yes, trust me for that,” she said, “for if Mrs. 
Miller should find that I was trying to go away she 
would chase me and take me home and treat me 
worse, than ever.” 

“Well, Dorothy,” he said, “for your own future's 
sake, be careful, and do not act in any way that 
would lead her to think you mean to go away and 
leave her.” 

“Oh, I shall be careful,” she replied, “very care- 
ful, and I shall be here at this corner next Saturday 
evening. But I must go now, for here of late when 
I do not get home as early as Mrs. Miller thinks I 
should, she comes down this way to see if there is 
any one with me. So good-by until next Satur- 
day.” 

“Good-by,” Kenton replied, “but do be careful.” 

Kenton knew that his hopes of going to school 
were past, but whenever he thought of how that 
little pale face brightened up at the thoughts of an- 
other home, he did not regret his decision. He 
waited impatiently for Saturday to come so as to 
get the poor child away from that cruel old woman 
whom she called Mrs. Miller. He believed there 
was some mystery about this little girl and he 
thought perhaps the old woman had stolen her. He 
saw at a glance that the girl had a refined face and 
he thought that if she had the proper training, she 
would some day make an intelligent and lovely 


io8 


the: sart of rossvitte: haix 


woman, and that his mother and Essie were the very 
ones who could make her such a woman. 

So when Saturday evening* came, he went down 
to the corner where Dorothy had promised to wait 
for him. He found her there and bidding her come 
with him, they started to the depot. The child 
seemed to be frightened out of her wits. Kenton 
asked her the cause of this, and she replied, “I am 
so afraid Mrs. Miller will see us and carry me back 
to that dreadful place.” 

“I don’t think there’s any probability of this,” 
Kenton replied. “And if we should see her coming, 
we could dodge around a corner. Did you leave her 
at home?” 

“No,” she replied. “She took the money from 
me and went to the grog shop, and that is one reason 
why I am afraid she will see us, for we are liable to 
meet her at any moment.” 

“Well, we can at least hope we may not,” he re- 
plied, cheerfully. 

“Oh!” she cried. “Look! There she is! What 
can we do? There is no corner here for us to 
dodge around, and she will take me home with her 
and I cannot get away from her any more,” and 
looking down the street Kenton saw the old woman 
coming along, tottering a little as she walked. 

Kenton hardly knew how to act, but he was de- 
termined that Dorothy should not go back. It was 
but a little way up the street to a corner, but to 
reach it they musjt gO' right toward the old woman. 
But this was their only chance of escape, for if they 
should turn about she would overtake them before 


the: kari; ot rossviixe: hau, 109 

they could possibly reach the corner. So catching 
hold of Dorothy’s hand, Kenton told her they must 
run. And run they did. But the old woman had 
seen them and was trying to run toward them, 
shouting at the top of her voice, “Oh! Ye little 
vagabonds! You thought you’d get away from 
me, did you ? I have been expecting this all along. 
What do you think you are going to do? There’s 
that beau of yours, that you brought home with you 
the other day. When I get you home I’ll pay you 
for this.” 

The old woman was rapidly gaining on them, and 
Kenton was beginning to* think she would over- 
take them, in spite of all their efforts. Just as they 
reached the corner the old woman reached it too, 
and putting out her long, bony arm, she attempted 
to seize Dorothy as she passed, but just as she put 
out her hand to catch her, she lost her footing, fell 
and rolled over in the gutter. A policeman now 
hurried up to them and, seizing Kenton by the 
shoulder, demanded the cause of the disturbance. 

“Hold on to him !” the old woman shouted. “He 
is trying to steal my little gal,” as she managed to 
gain her footing, and started toward Dorothy. 

“Run, Dorothy,” shouted Kenton, “run for your 
life.” 

“Hold your tongue,” the old woman said, snap- 
pishly, “you little ruffian ! To try to steal a poor 
old woman’s only child !” 

“She is not yours,” Kenton replied, but the old 
woman did not hear him, she was so bent on over- 
taking the child. She ran after her and seizing her 


no 


THE} £ART OT ROSSVIIvIvE: HAI.Iv 


rudely by the hair, she gave her a vigorous box on 
the ear. 

“You ungrateful little fool, Til give you full pay 
for this,” and seizing her by the arm she dragged 
her back up the street to where the policeman and 
Kenton were standing. 

“Hand-cuff him,” she said. “He is a thief. He 
tried to take my little gal from me.” 

“Oh ! thank you, sir,” Dorothy cried, grate- 
“Please let us go ; he is so kind to me, and Mrs. 
Miller is so very unkind.” 

“Shut up,” the old woman interrupted, “if you 
can’t say anything but lies.” 

“They are not lies,” the little girl sobbed ; “it is 
all true.” 

“Hush, I tell you,” and she had lifted her hand to 
strike the child, when the policeman seized her up- 
lifted arm. 

“Not so fast, if you please. Let the child tell why 
she was trying to get away from you. Perhaps she 
had good reasons. I think from your looks now, 
and the strong smell of liquor about you, that she 
did have a very good cause.” 

“Oh ! thank you, sir,” Dorothy cried, grate- 
fully. “Mrs. Miller was so very unkind to me and 
would beat me so that I could hardly bear the blows, 
and I never have enough to eat. Mrs. Miller makes 
me work all day, and then when night comes she 
takes all the money and spends it for drink, and 
when I cannot sell my flowers, she beats me and 
says I am idle, and sends me to bed without any- 
thing to eat. When I am sure I have always sold 


THE) DARI, O D ROSSVILIvD HAIyl, 


Ill 


all I could, and carried her every cent of the 
money.” 

“All lies, every one of them,” the old woman in- 
terrupted. “Every one of them. I don’t drink< 
sir, I—” 

“Yes, I notice now that you don’t drink,” he said, 
grinning. “And I say for you to hold your tongue 
and let the child finish her story.” 

The old woman was silent and Dorothy con- 
tinued : “And one evening when I was going* home 
a boy snatched my purse, and this boy here took it 
from him and returned it to me, and when I told 
him how cruel Mrs. Miller was, he told me he would 
try to find me a better home. And so last Monday 
evening he told me to meet him down the street 
this evening, and he would take me to a better home. 
I had to slip off from her, for I knew she would not 
let me go, for she wants me to work for her. She 
never does any work herself.” 

“Well,” said the policeman, releasing his hold 
upon Kenton, “I suppose I must let you all go, for I 
have a little girl at home and should she ever get in 
such hands as this poor little lass has, I should be 
very glad if some one would help her. And I think 
you are a good boy to take the little girl and get 
her a better home. So you all may go.” 

“Thank you,” said Kenton, “and may God bless 
you.” 

“And,” continued the policeman, turning to Mrs. 
Miller, “I will take you with me, and see how you 
will like a night in the station house, for being 
drunk and causing such a disturbance.” 


II 2 


THS E)ARIv OF ROSSVIIXS HAU, 


“Oh ! mercy,” cried the old woman, trying to free 
herself, “let the two< conspirators go and take a poor 
old woman that never done any harm in her life.” 

“Yes,” said the policeman, “if I were you I would 
ask for mercy. You had no mercy on this poor 
little child. And as for doing no harm, I don’t think 
from your looks you have ever done anything else. 
You did harm a moment ago when you struck that 
poor little girl for trying to get away. I do not 
blame her for wanting to go. Come along with me 
without any further trouble.” 

She walked away, muttering curses on the heads 
of Kenton and Dorothy, and telling Dorothy if she 
ever should get her hands on her again she would 
not get away any more, and that she would give her 
full pay. 

“I will never live with her any more,” Dorothy 
said to Kenton. “I would die first.” And the two 
then proceeded on their way to the depot. 


CHAPTER XII 


Kenton and Dorothy entered the waiting room of 
the depot and sat down to wait for the train to 
Rossville. After a while an old gentleman came 
into the room and seated himself opposite them. 
When his eyes fell upon Dorothy he gave a sudden 
start and murmured, “Can it be? No — no, I must 
be going mad to think such a thing.” But it seemed 
as if he could not take his eyes from Dorothy’s 
face. She did not notice him, but Kenton hardly 
knew what to make of the man’s strange interest 
in Dorothy. He was on the point of asking the old 
gentleman if he knew anything concerning the little 
girl, when the train pulled in and they had to go. 
The last he saw of the old gentleman he had fol- 
lowed them to the door, and he watched them until 
they entered the train. 

“Oh!” said Dorothy, with a sigh of relief, “I 
am so glad to get out of the way of that wicked old 
woman, and to know that she cannot trouble me 
any more.” 

“No,” said Kenton, “she will never know what 
has become of you. She will never think of going 
out to Rossville to look for you. My ! but wasn’t it 
luck that the policeman arrested her? For likely as 
not if he hadn’t she would have followed us, and 
given us a lot of trouble.” 

“Yes,” Dorothy replied, “I do not wish Mrs. 

8 


1 14 THE EARE OE ROSSVIEEE HAEIv 

Miller any harm, but I am glad she was arrested so 
as to not give us any trouble/’ 

“Say! Dorothy,” said Kenton, “did you notice 
that queer-looking old gentleman in the waiting 
room — the one who looked at you all the time?” 

“No,” she replied, “I did not notice him. I am 
glad I did not, for if he looked at me SO’ very much, I 
should have been frightened. I would have thought 
Mrs. Miller had sent him to bring me back.” 

“But thank Providence, he did not interfere with 
us,” Kenton replied. 

It did not take long for them to reach Rossville, 
and then they walked to Kenton’s home. Mrs. Lor- 
rimer and Essie received Dorothy kindly and bade 
her sit down until after supper and then she could 
tell them about herself and the woman with whom 
she had lived. Mrs. Lorrimer soon had supper 
ready and Dorothy enjoyed the good wholesome 
meal. When she had finished, Dorothy wanted to 
help Mrs. Lorrimer clear away the supper dishes, 
but Mrs. Lorrimer told her to sit down and rest. 
She was not sorry to do this as she had walked the 
streets all day, selling flowers, and was very tired. 
She then told Mrs. Lorrimer all about herself and 
that lady soon discovered that she was a very bright 
little girl. 

Kenton got up early the following morning so 
as to go over and tell Daphne and Rupert of his little 
friend, and they of course must go right over and see 
her. She seemed a little shy of them at first, but 
before they left she liked them very much. 

“Why, Kenton,” said Rupert, “that is a lovely 


thd e)art od rossvittd hatt 115 

little girl and I will wager she makes an excellent 
woman one of these days.” 

“I am so glad you have brought her out to stay,” 
said Daphne, “for now I shall have another, play- 
mate.” 

And on the way home the two children talked of 
Dorothy Donald, and said they meant to go and see 
her real often. 

“I am sure mamma will not want us to go,” 
said Daphne, “and if she will not allow us, I shall 
be very sorry, for I like her ever so much.” 

Dorothy seemed very happy, when she had been 
with Mrs. Lorrimer a week or two, and seemed to 
be getting over her fear of Mrs. Miller’s finding 
her. Every time Kenton came home, he would tell 
her that she grew prettier each time he saw her, 
and Dorothy seemed to think there was no one like 
Kenton — except Rupert Ross, whom she had grown 
to like very much. 

She saw Rupert very often, but not Daphne. 
Lady Ross said if Rupert was so disposed, he could 
go to Mrs. Lorrimer’ s every day, but Daphne must 
not go; she wouuld see to that herself. Daphne 
could hardly bear this. However, she could see 
Kenton every week for he could not go back to the 
city without seeing Daphne, and he would go over 
to the Hall each time he visited his mother. 

One day Essie received another letter from 
Claude and in answering it, she told him about Ken- 
ton’s luck of getting a situation so as to earn money 
to go to school, and how he gave up going to school 
to give his earnings to his mother to help keep the 


n6 the Eart oe rossvitIvE halt, 

little girl, the care of whom he had taken upon him- 
self. 

The year passed uneventfully and another Christ- 
mas came. Essie, as beautiful as ever, looked a little 
sad. Daphne was a lovely little girl almost fifteen 
and, as Kenton expressed it, “more beautiful than 
ever.” Kenton had grown considerably and was 
now a tall, splendid-looking boy of something over 
seventeen, almost a man in size, if not in age. Ru- 
pert was a little taller but not so tall yet as Kenton, 
and Dorothy, — who would take this little girl of six- 
teen for the same little ragged, half-starved child of 
a year ago? She was very small for her age, but 
her brown wavy hair and beautiful gray eyes would 
cause a passerby to give her more than a passing 
glance. Daphne, who* was very tall, said that she 
did not see why she could not stay small like Dor- 
othy and she told Kenton, as a great secret, that 
she thought Rupert was half in love with Dorothy. 
Rupert was soon to leave for college, and Kenton 
was very much grieved that he could not go with 
him. 

On going to the post-office one morning, Kenton 
received a letter from Uncle Roger. He did not 
break the seal until he reached home, and when he 
did so, what was his surprise when a bank note fell 
from the envelope? Uncle Roger wrote that, on 
hearing from Claude, what Kenton had done, he 
sent him this to spend for his education and prom- 
ised to send the same amount again one year from 
that day. 

Kenton was so overjoyed. 


the: e;art od rossvittd hatt II 7 

“Hurrah for Uncle Roger ! I won’t have to give 
up going to college after all! Wouldn’t I like to get 
my arms about his dear old neck now. I should give 
him such a hug he would think a bear had fallen in 
love with him! Just look, Essie! See, Dorothy,” 
he said, triumphantly, waving the bank note over 
his head. “I say I will not have to give up going to 
college after all.” And going up to his mother he 
put his arms about her and gave her such a vigorous 
hug, she had to call Essie to take him away. 

He then turned on Essie, and, after giving her a 
bear-like hug, he released her and started for Dor- 
othy, who took refuge on the opposite side of the 
table. 

“Oh, don’t run, Dorothy,” he said, “for I have 
hugged both mamma and Essie and I don’t mean to 
slight my other sister just because she is so small.” 

So round and round the table Dorothy went with 
Kenton in pursuit. 

“Good gracious, Dorothy,” he exclaimed, breath- 
lessly, “I really believe you could beat the fastest 
horse in England! I haven’t seen you run so fast 
since the day old Mother Miller gave chase.” 

“Oh, Kenton, do leave off,” she said. “I declare 
I can’t run any more. But please leave me alone. 
I would as soon a bear would get me as you. You 
really should not impose on your little sister just 
because you are larger.” 

She begged so earnestly that Kenton let her off if 
she would promise to keep out of his way. He said 
that he was so very happy he was not responsible 
for his actions. 


Il8 TH£ SARI, OF ROSSVIU,*) HALIy 

“Mother, have all my things ready/’ he said, “for 
I mean to go with Rupert after all. But I must 
write Uncle Roger.” 

And so, sitting down, he wrote a long letter to 
him, telling him he was the dearest uncle in the 
world and many other things which would be very 
pleasing to this old wandering uncle. 

Early the next morning, he went over to tell Ru- 
pert the news. Rupert was almost as glad as Ken- 
ton.” 

“I declare, you are a lucky fellow,” he said. 
“And I’ll tell you Fm glad to have you go with me.” 

“No more SO' than I am glad to go,” Kenton re- 
plied, “for the dearest wish of my life has been to go 
away to school.” 

Daphne did not like the idea of Rupert and Ken- 
ton both going away ; she said it would be SO' very 
lonely. 

“You will have us thinking we are of more im- 
portance than we really are,” Kenton replied. 

“No, no,” she said, “you could not think that 
way, for you are all, and more than I say you are. 
But never mind, I am going away to school next 
year, and you will not be missed so much when I 
am gone, for of course I am the one that will miss 
you and Rupert most of all.” 

“You forgot mamma and papa and Mrs. Lorri- 
mer and Essie and Dorothy,” said Rupert. 

“Oh, they won’t miss you so much as I will,” she 
replied, “but of course I know that you would like 
to think you were missed by Dorothy.” 

“Dorothy will miss Rupert more than she will 


The: o $ rossvitte: halt, 119 

me,” Kenton said, “for she sees him nearly every 
day and she only sees me once a week.” 

When Kenton was ready to leave he told Daphne 
that he would come to bid her good-by before he 
left for college. 

“Indeed I think you will,” she replied, “you know 
it would never do for you to leave without coming 
to bid me good-by.” 

It did not take a week long to go by, and on the 
day before Rupert and Kenton were to leave, Kem 
ton went over to the Hall, as he had promised 
Daphne he would do. When he told her good-by, 
he whispered, “I mean to write to you, Daphne, and 
if I do, will you answer my letters?” 

“Certainly I shall,” she replied. “I will answer 
every one of them.” 

“Thank you,” he said. “You may look for a 
letter from me at most any time, for I shall be anx- 
ious to hear from you. But I must tell you good-by. 
Now be a good girl and do not fall in the river any 
more,” he said, laughing, “for then I could not get 
those letters which I will enjoy so much.” 

“I shall try not to get drowned,” she replied, 
laughing too, and then Kenton went home. 

Rupert and Kenton left the following morning 
for Eton to be gone ten long months. It was with 
tearful eyes that Mrs. Lorrimer saw Kenton go. 
She was glad for him but she did not like the idea 
of not seeing her son again for so long. 

But Lady Ross, when Rupert kissed her good- 
by, drew herself up haughtily, and said, coldly, “It 
displeases me very much, Rupert, to see you going 


120 


the: E)ART ot ROSSVITTD HATIv 


away with the Lorrimer boy. I fear he will lead 
you into something wrong/’ 

“If I never do anything wrong until Kenton Lor- 
rimer leads me to it, I’m sure I’ll never do anything 
wrong/’ he replied stoutly, and left his mother 
weeping. She was weeping not because he was 
gone, but because Kenton had gone with him. 

Mrs. Lorrimer soon received a letter from Ken- 
ton telling her how well he liked the place and how 
he did like to' go to school. But he was, he said, 
beginning to want to' see the folks at home. Bte 
told his mother to tell Essie and Dorothy to write 
to him and that he would have written to them at 
the time he did his mother, but was so busy with 
his studies he could not spare the time then. But 
he found he could spare the time to write to Daphne 
for she received a long letter from him. 

During these days Essie spent much of the time in 
giving Dorothy lessons on the piano, and she was 
not quite so lonely now for Dorothy was an apt 
scholar, and got so that she could play almost as 
well as Essie. Essie had taught her to play the 
pieces which she had played for Claude and she 
would listen to Dorothy’s exquisite young voice for 
hours and hours as she sang his favorites, and in 
imagination Essie felt that she was again by his 
side, listening to his loving voice. 

He had been gone now a year and three months 
and it seemed to Essie a century and three years. 
Dorothy knew why Essie looked so sad, for Essie 
made her a confidant almost from the first and they 
had become as sisters. Mrs. Lorrimer was very 


THE EARE OE ROSSVIEEE HAEE 


12 1 


glad that she had let the girl come to stay with 
them for she was so light-hearted and gay that she 
was like a sunbeam. Dorothy often talked of Mrs. 
Miller and the wretched days she spent with her, 
and said that she would not be back with her for the 
world, and then she would laugh and tell over and 
over again about the way she and Kenton tried to 
pass the old woman and how comical she would* 
have looked to any one who was not interested in 
the matter, when she rolled over in the gutter, and 
how kind the policeman was in letting them go. 
And she often wondered who the old gentleman 
could have been who stared at her so in the waiting 
room, for she remembered everything that happened 
that night. 


CHAPTER XIII 


Kenton and Rupert had been at Eton for eight 
months. Kenton was the most apt scholar of the 
two and one of the best in the whole school. He 
was a favorite with every one. His classmates 
thought there was no one in school like him. Ru- 
pert was also a great favorite. 

It was now just two months until vacation and 
they could hardly wait for those two* months to go 
by, they were so anxious to be at home again. They 
had received many invitations to spend vacation 
with their college chums, but would not accept any 
of them, for it would be difficult to tell which was 
the more desirous of getting home. 

At home great preparations were going on for 
their return. Essie seemed to grow more light- 
hearted now as she thought that almost two of those 
weary years of waiting had gone. “It will not 
take that other year long to go by,” she thought, 
“and then Claude will return, and I shall be happy 
once more.” She was looking eagerly to the time 
when Kenton would be at home, for it did not seem 
nearly so lonely when he was at home. Dorothy 
could hardly wait for the days to go by for Ken- 
ton seemed as a very dear brother to- her. 

But those two long months had gone at last, and 
on the night they were to reach Rossville, Lord Ross 
met the boys at the station with the carriage, for he 
could not wait at home. Daphne would go with her 
father to meet them and when the train arrived at 


the) sari, os rossvissS hau. 


123 


last it seemed to Daphne that they had been waiting 
five hours, but of course had only been a few min- 
utes. Kenton and Rupert stepped from the train 
and Daphne rushed into Rupert’s arms with a glad 
cry of welcome. Lord Ross warmly grasped the 
hand of Kenton and as soon as Daphne could be 
released from her brother’s arms, he turned to Ru- 
pert and welcomed him, while Daphne turned to 
Kenton. 

“Oh, Kenton,” she exclaimed, “what a splendid- 
looking fellow you have grown to be ! Why, you are 
a lot handsomer than Rupert.” 

“Thank you,” he replied, “but I say, Daphne, you 
really must not commence the flattering process be- 
fore you have had a good look at me. Possibly I 
won’t look so well when you have had a better look 
at me. But my, how pretty you look! I did not 
think when I left there was any room for improve- 
ment. And, Daphne,” he whispered, still holding 
her hand, and giving it a little pressure, “how I en- 
joyed those letters! You can’t imagine.” 

“And how I enjoyed yours you will never know,” 
she replied, “for I cannot tell you. I was so very 
lonely without you and Rupert. And your letters 
would cheer me up.” 

Rupert told Kenton to take the back seat of the 
carriage with Daphne, as he wished to sit beside his 
father. Now, Rupert would have much preferred 
to sit with Daphne but he knew how glad Kenton 
would be to sit by her so he told him to sit there. 
They soon reached Mrs. Lorrimer’s and Rupert 
would go in to see Mrs. Lorrimer and the girls. But 


124 


the) e)art o D rossvitte) hatt 


Kenton whispered to- Daphne that Dorothy was the 
girl he wished to see for he talked of her the greatest 
part of the time while they were away. 

It seemed that Mrs. Lorrimer would never release 
Kenton from her embrace. Dorothy was the first 
one that Rupert wished to meet. He clasped the 
hand which she held out rather shyly, and when 
he told her how well she looked she flushed and re- 
plied, “And you look just as fine, too. And Kenton, 
— my gracious ! how handsome he has grown.” 

He was indeed handsome, with his brown wavy 
hair and blue eyes ; and he and Dorothy would have 
very easily been taken for brother and sister. Essie 
seemed the saddest of the group, for these greet- 
ings brought to her mind another meeting, — a meet- 
ing that she would be so glad to experience. The 
first thing Kenton asked of Essie was when she had 
heard from Claude and what he had done towards 
getting wealthy ? Essie told him when she received 
the last letter, but said that he did not say anything 
about getting rich, but said if things came out as 
he thought they would he would be home in one 
more year. 

“And won’t we be glad to see him,” Kenton re- 
plied. “And Uncle Roger, is he coming with 
Claude?” 

Essie replied that she did not know as Claude had 
not said. 

“I do hope he will,” Kenton replied, “for I would 
give the world to see Uncle Roger.” 

Rupert was at Mrs. Lorrimer’s every day during 
their vacation and he would tell his mother that 


The: £ART OT ROSSVITT^ HATIv 


125 


Daphne just must go with him for he wanted to be 
with her every day, so the four young people en- 
joyed themselves very much. Essie did not take 
much part with them as she was always sitting alone 
with her thoughts. Kenton was always with Daphne 
and Rupert with Dorothy. Mrs. Lorrimer would 
watch them with pleasure until her gaze fell upon 
Essie sitting so silent and sad, and then she could 
but feel sad to think that Essie could not enjoy any- 
thing like the other four young people. And she 
sometimes thought it would have been best had Essie 
never met Claude. 

One evening when Rupert and Daphne had been 
at Mrs. Lorrimer’s, Rupert, who had been watch- 
ing Essie intently as she sat with that sad look in 
her dreamy blue eyes, thought suddenly that they 
were causing all this. He resolved to tell his father 
that he never meant to be an earl and that he must 
bequeath the earldom to that young man for whom 
Essie was grieving her very life away. 

Lord Ross was astonished and told Rupert that 
it would never do, for the earldom would come to 
the nearest relative at his death. 

“But, papa, if I say I do not mean to take it, what 
then ?” 

“Yes, but you will not do this/’ Lord Ross re- 
plied. 

“Yes, papa,” Rupert replied, “that is just the 
thing I mean to do. I shall never be an earl, for 
Kenton and I are going in partners in business 
in a few years and I know I shall like that better 
than being an earl.” 



126 


The: E)ARL, OT ROSSVITTi: HATI, 


“Well, Rupert Ross!’’ his father said in blank 
consternation, “if that doesn’t beat all I have ever 
heard of! Why is it that you are so anxious for 
this young man to take your place as earl?” 

“Simply for this reason,” replied the boy, “I have 
no desire to be an earl. I would be so much glad- 
der to see this poor young man Lord Ross than to 
be that myself. And I say, papa, you can do> as 
you choose in this matter, but I shall not accept the 
earldom, and I wish you to make your will and 
leave this to him, I do- not say leave him any of 
your money; I only mean the title, for I do not 
want any title to my name.” 

“Well, Rupert,” he replied, “you have some 
strange, strange notions. I declare I never saw the 
like of you, but of course I shall not cto this, for 
you will probably change your mind when you grow 
older.” 

“No,” Rupert replied, “I shall never change my 
mind in this. But, papa, if the day I am twenty 
I have not changed my mind will you do 1 this ?” 

“Yes,” the Earl replied, for he was sure that 
Rupert would not wish him to do this after he had 
thought upon the matter for that length of time. 

“Thank you,” Rupert replied, “for this promise, 
for on the day I am twenty I shall have the pleas- 
ure of seeing the title made over to this Claude 
Ross.” 

“Rupert, suppose I shall out-live this young man,” 
the Earl said after a pause, “would you not accept 
the title then?” 


the) hart of rossvitte) haw. 


127 


“No,” said Rupert, “I would not, I would let the 
title drop.” 

“What a strange lad to be sure,” Lord Ross said, 
musingly. 

And when Rupert had left the room, he mur- 
mured, “Strange indeed. Why, most boys in his 
position would not give up being an earl for all the 
world. But Rupert has always been a strange 
child. He has never had the ways and ideas of 
other children.” 

The winter snows now began to fall, and the four 
young people spent the time sleigh-riding or skating 
or in some other such amusement. The time was 
not far distant when Rupert and Kenton would have 
to return to Eton to continue their studies, and 
Daphne was going to leave for a young ladies’ semi- 
nary in France. Dorothy said she did not see how 
she was to pass the time, she would be so lonely 
when they were all gone. 

“How I wish you could go with me, Dorothy,” 
Daphne said one day, when they were talking of the 
time when she should go. As she spoke she passed 
her arm around Dorothy lovingly. 

“And I wish I could,” Dorothy replied, “but I 
can not and there is no need to think of that.” 

“I wish I was rich, then you could,” Kenton said 
— he was a listener to the above conversation. “I 
have often thought of your going to school and am 
sorry because I couldn’t do this.” 

“Now, Kenton,” Dorothy replied, “you have done 
an excellent part by me and I am perfectly satisfied 


128 


TH £ £ARL OF ROSSVIFLF HAI,Iv 


with what you have done, so do not let this grieve 
you.” 

“I have not done as good a part by you as I 
should like to, but I have done the best to my ability 
and I suppose that is all one can do.” 

“Yes,” she replied, “it is all and enough. Just 
to think what circumstances I was in when you 
found me, and now what a happy home I have! I 
can live all my days out here with the utmost satis- 
faction just as I am. Don’t you think Kenton is 
just the best brother in the world?” she said, turn- 
ing to Daphne. 

“Indeed I do,” Daphne replied heartily. “I have 
thought him that ever since I first knew him. I 
think we are very lucky girls in possessing such 
good, kind and loving brothers as Kenton and Ru- 
pert, don’t you, Dorothy?” 

“Yes,” Dorothy replied, “I think we have the 
very best brothers in the world.” 

Dorothy had long since learned to call Kenton 
brother, for he seemed as much to her. 

Another Christmas has come and gone, bringing 
to Kenton another letter from Uncle Roger with the 
promised money, and Rupert and Kenton are again 
at Eton and in one more month Daphne is to leave 
for France. 

When the time came for Daphne to leave, Lord 
Ross accompanied her and saw that she was prop- 
erly settled and then returned to England. It was 
very lonely now at the Hall, for Daphne’s sunny 
face and gay laughter were missed so much. It was 
also a sad parting, the parting between Daphne and 


THE) E)ARIv OT ROSSVITIvE: HATIv 


129 


Dorothy, for they had grown to love each other 
very much. Daphne promised Dorothy that she 
would write to her very often, and when she had 
been gone a little more than a week Dorothy re- 
ceived a long letter from her telling her how she 
liked all the girls and that she would like it so much 
better if Dorothy was only there. 

Lady Ross missed Daphne very much but was 
glad to get her out of the company of Dorothy Don- 
ald, whom this proud lady considered little higher 
than her own servants. She told Lord Ross that 
as both Daphne and Rupert were gone, and it was so 
very lonely they might as well travel a while, and 
the time would not seem so long. The Earl was 
willing, as he could hardly bear to remain at the 
Hall without his little Daphne. So they left in a 
few days, and the servants were not sorry for they 
were glad to have Lady Ross go, as they were not 
over-fond of her. 


9 


CHAPTER XIV 


It was a lonely time for Dorothy and Essie, and 
then to think that even Lord and Lady Ross were 
gone. Though they were not very much company 
to 'Mrs. Lorrimer’s little family when they were at 
home, it seemed lonely to think there was no one at 
the Hall but the servants. 

As Dorothy had never been at the Hall, she and 
Essie went over one afternoon to see what a grand 
old place it was. Mrs. Sullivan, the housekeeper, 
showed them over the place and told them she was 
glad to see some sweet young faces once more ; that 
since Daphne left the place was very lonely. Essie 
could not but remember the last time she was at 
the Hall, and the sad memory caused a deeper look 
of melancholy to come in her pale face. 

“And your name is Dorothy Donald/' Mrs. Sul- 
livan said, looking intently at Dorothy. “Are you 
the Dorothy that Rupert and Daphne talked so much 
about ? Why, Rupert was completely fascinated 
with you. And one day Daphne whispered to me 
that though you were both very young, she believed 
that you were in love with each other. Is this 
true?" she asked, smiling at Dorothy's agitation. 

“No," said Dorothy, “I am sure Rupert would 
not love such a poor girl as I." 

“Why, that is the very kind of girl Rupert likes," 
Mrs. Sullivan replied. “Rupert and Daphne both 
like poor people better than rich ones. They seemed 
to think almost as much of me as they did of their 


THK KARL OK ROSSVILLK HALL 131 

own mother and would tell me all of their secrets. 
But of all the people I ever met, Lord Claude was 
my choice. I loved him as if he had been my own 
son. Why, what is the matter, Miss Lorrimer?” 
Mrs. Sullivan asked, for Essie had turned so pale 
that she thought she was going to faint. “Am I tir- 
ing you with my ceaseless chattering ?” 

“No, no,” Essie replied quickly. “I am not in the 
least tired, but I have a very painful headache. Go 
on please and tell me about Lord Claude.” 

“He was just the kindest young man I have ever 
met,” continued Mrs. Sullivan, “and it was hard on 
him when he had to leave. I think there must have 
been some girl he was grieved at leaving for I never 
saw him in such distress. He looked as if he was 
going mad.” 

How could she ever sit there and listen to that? 
Essie thought, when she was that girl. She longed 
to tell Mrs. Sullivan all, for she had a kind, motherly 
face, and besides this she, too, loved Claude. “But 
no,” Essie thought, “I will not tell her.” But she 
was afraid lest the loud beating of her heart would 
be heard and betray her secret. 

Mrs. Sullivan talked on and on, never tiring, 
until Essie told her that they really must go, then 
Mrs. Sullivan told them they must come again, and 
she asked them if they were fond of reading. They 
replied that they were, and then she told them they 
must come over to the Hall every day and read some 
of those splendid books in the library. They 
thanked her and told her as they were so lonely at 
times that they would be very glad of this oppor- 


132 


TH£ EARIv OF ROSSVIIvI,e: HATIy 


tunity. And they did go to the Hall very often, and 
then it did not seem so lonely as it had. 

One day Essie was reading a very pathetic love 
story when she came upon her own name written 
with a pencil in Claude’s writing, and she knew by 
this that he had been reading the same book, and 
then over on the next page she discovered in the 
same writing these words : “God bless my little 
Essie.” And she knew that the story had in some 
way reminded him of her. Then she fell to think- 
ing of Claude and, laying the book aside, she burst 
into tears, and said to Dorothy, “I have a presenti- 
ment, Dorothy, that Claude is not coming back so 
soon as we were expecting him. And, oh, if he 
should not !” Laying aside her book, Dorothy arose 
and going over to Essie, she put her arms about her 
neck and kissed her tenderly. 

“Essie, do not think of such a thing. Try to think 
he is coming. Let every day take care of itself and 
do not borrow trouble.” 

“I really can not help it, Dorothy, dear,” she re- 
plied. “I have tried to be happy and cheerful and I 
can not. Just at the time I think I am becoming 
accustomed to his absence such a wild longing to 
see him takes possession of me that it seems I will 
almost die.” 

“But, Essie,” said Dorothy, “he promised to be 
back at the end of three years at the very longest. 
A little more than two of those years are already 
gone and you can surely wait one more year ! And 
then this handsome lover of yours will return. I 
am just dying to see him, for I know he is noble 


the) e)art ot rossviUvE) halt, 


133 


and good, or you would never love him as you do. 
I sometimes imagine I can see how he looks, and 
when he returns I shall see if I have pictured him 
out in my mind correctly.” 

“Dorothy,” said Essie, drying her eyes, “you are 
che dearest little comforter on earth. I sometimes 
think were it not for you I should die of grief, but 
you are always ready with a bright smile and a word 
of cheer, — a real little sunbeam in my darkened, 
lonely life.” 

“I am glad if I can be of any comfort to you,” 
she replied, “for I should like to repay you in some 
way for your kindness to me.” 

“You have repaid me a thousand times,” Essie 
replied, “for the little I have ever done for you.” 

Essie and Dorothy continued to go to the Hall 
almost every day, until one day Mrs. Sullivan in- 
formed them that Lord and Lady Ross were ex- 
pected at any time and then they left off going. In 
a few days Lord Ross came over to Mrs. Lorrimer’s 
to tell her that on the way home they had come by 
way of Eton and, as he thought she would be glad 
to hear how Kenton was doing, he came over to tell 
her. She thanked the Earl, telling him he was very 
kind to take this trouble and she would certainly be 
glad to hear from Kenton. 

“He is doing just as well as one could expect,” 
he said. “He is going ahead of Rupert in his studies 
and the professors give him a good reputation. But 
he gets that name wherever he goes. Mr. Eperson, 
you know, the president of the bank where Kenton 
worked, did not like the idea of giving him up at 


134 


the: EARI, OT ROSSVIIvIvE: HAIvIv 


all as he was such an excellent lad and attended to 
his duties so thoroughly. Kenton bade me give you 
and his two sisters his best love and tell you he was 
doing well, enjoying good health and that he would 
be glad when he could be at home once again.” 

“And I will be glad when he can be at home 
again,” Mrs. Lorrimer replied, “for we do miss him 
so much.” 

“Yes,” Lord Ross replied, “I know you miss him 
a great deal, for it hardly seems like the same place 
at the Hall since Rupert and Daphne went away. 
But you should not be so lonely as Marie and I, for 
you have some young people with you yet. Daphne 
says that Miss Dorothy is as lively as a kitten and 
no one could be lonely when they were with her.” 

“Yes,” Mrs. Lorrimer replied, “Dorothy is the 
light of our home, but still we cannot but miss Ken- 
ton ; it seems that I shall never become accustomed 
to his absence.” 

Here a deep sigh was heard, and looking over to 
the other side of the room, Mrs. Lorrimer saw 
Essie with her hands folded idly in her lap, gazing 
out the window toward the east, with that same sad 
look in her eyes. 

When Mrs. Lorrimer said that she could never 
become accustomed to Kenton’s absence, Essie 
thought of that other absent one, so many miles 
away. A cloud of sadness passed over Mrs. Lor- 
rimer’s face when she saw that her words caused 
Essie pain, and Dorothy also noticed Essie’s grief 
and rising, she went over to her and suggested that 
they go for a walk. She always tried to think of 


THE EARIv oe rossvieee hate 


135 


something to take Essie's mind from that absent 
one. 

Essie assented. And taking up their hats, they 
went down the road, walking very slowly. And 
Dorothy soon succeeded in getting Essie to talk of 
something else, even if she was still thinking of 
Claude. 

When they reached home again, Lord Ross had 
gone and, going over to the piano, Dorothy com- 
menced a lively little “ditty,” and soon had Essie 
laughing, which difficult thing she succeeded in 
doing only once in a great while. 


CHAPTER XV 


The long three years were over at last, and 
Claude was expected home very soon. Rupert, 
Daphne and Kenton had returned home and Essie 
had grown very happy as the time came for his re- 
turn. But on this particular day she and Dorothy 
had been to the post-office and Essie received a 
letter. Looking at the writing she recognized it as 
her lover’s. 

“A letter from Claude ! Why, Dorothy, I was not 
expecting this,” she said. “I half fear that some- 
thing has gone wrong, for he told me in his last let- 
ter not to look for any more letters for he would 
be home by the time another letter could reach me. 
I’m half afraid to open this, for I fear something 
dreadful has happened.” 

“Oh, Essie,” Dorothy replied, “don’t fear any- 
thing of the kind. Probably he is on his way now 
and sent this to tell you when he could reach here. 
Do look, — where was it posted? I am sure he is 
on the way home now.” 

Essie looked at the letter and replied, “No, Dor- 
othy, it was posted in the Indies.” 

And she who had watched and waited so< impa- 
tiently for the coming of Claude’s letters was almost 
afraid to open this for fear of bad news. 

“Do read it, Essie dear,” said Dorothy, “and 
tell me when this wonderful lover of yours will 
reach here. I’m growing impatient to hear when 


THE) e:ART 0 T ROSSVIU^ HATIy 1 3 7 

he is coming. Why, it looks very much like you are 
not glad to hear from him/' 

“Well, I must confess, Dorothy, that I would 
be gladder to see Claude than the letter. I can not 
tell why, but I have a dread of reading this letter, 
something seems to whisper in my ear, ‘this letter 
contains bad news/ ” 

“That is all imagination, Essie.” 

“Possibly it is,” she said, “but I am going to wait 
until I reach home before I read it.” 

“Why, Essie, you have never done anything like 
this before. The very speediest way you could open 
the letter was too slow for you and now you say 
you mean to wait until you reach home. Why, Es- 
sie, I am amazed at you.” 

But nothing Dorothy could say would induce 
Essie to open the letter. When they reached home 
Dorothy said to Mrs. Lorrimer, “What do you 
think, mamma, Essie has received a letter from 
Claude and she has not read it nor can I persuade 
her to read it.” 

“Why, Essie,” Mrs. Lorrimer said, “why do you 
not read the letter?” 

“Well, I do mean to read it now that I am at 
home, but I am sure it contains bad news.” 

“Let us hope that it does not,” Mrs. Lorrimer 
replied. 

“I have been hoping that all the way home,” she 
replied, “but still I can not but think it is as I say.” 

Going to her room, she sat down and broke the 
seal, then the fear became stronger than ever and 
she murmured, “Oh, God, if it does contain any- 


138 the: e;arl ol rossville hall 

thing dreadful, help me to bear it,” and then she un- 
folded the paper and began to read. 

As she read a deadly pallor settled over her face, 
and her hands trembled violently, and when she 
had finished reading one page, the letter fell from 
her nerveless fingers. 

“Oh, heaven help me, it is as I feared !” she cried 
and fell forward onto the floor. 

* * * sje 

When Essie did not return to the sitting room 
Dorothy remarked, “I wonder what Essie can be 
doing all this time ? Why, she has had time to read 
that letter over a half dozen times.” 

“I can not imagine what she can be doing,” Mrs. 
Lorrimer replied. “Perhaps it would be well for 
you to look-in and see.” 

“That is what I mean to do,” she replied, and 
going to the door she knocked, but no gentle voice 
bade her “come in.” 

“Essie,” she called, but there was no answer. 

Then when she pushed the door a little ways open 
and looked in, what was her surprise and horror to 
see Essie lying prone and helpless on the floor. 
With a little scream of fear she cried, “Oh ! mamma, 
come here, a dreadful thing has happened.” 

Mrs. Lorrimer ran to Dorothy and said, “What 
has happened, child?” 

“Do look, mamma,” she said, pushing the door 
farther open so as to make room for Mrs. Lorrimer, 
“Essie has fainted.” 

“Oh, mercy,” Mrs. Lorrimer exclaimed, “the 
child was surely right in her foreboding. There 


THE) e:arT OT ROSSVIIvIvE HAIvI, 


139 


was something dreadful in that letter. She has 
never fainted before in all her life. Here Dorothy, 
help to lift her up,” and between them the two 
women lifted her and placed her on the bed. Then 
they began to apply restoratives, and after they had 
worked with her a while she slowly opened her eyes, 
and seeing Mrs. Lorrimer and Dorothy standing 
over her, she said, “What is the matter? Oh, I re- 
member now. Oh, that I might die,” and again 
fainted. 

“Dorothy,” said Mrs. Lorrimer, “run and send 
Kenton for the doctor. He has gone over to the 
Hall.” 

Dorothy started, but had gone only a little way 
when she met Kenton. 

“Oh !” she exclaimed, “Kenton, go for the doctor 
and hurry up. Essie has fainted and as soon as she 
recovers from one spell she falls into another ! Do 
hurry up, Kenton. Mamma is frightened almost to 
death.” 

“Dorothy, tell me what is the matter with her?” 
he said. “What caused it?” 

“We do not know, Kenton,” she replied, “only 
that she got a letter from Claude and went to her 
room to read it and she stayed so long we became 
uneasy and I went to see why she stayed so long. I 
knocked and knocked and called her by name and 
still there was no answer. This frightened me, and 
pushing open the door I looked in and saw Essie 
lying on the floor in a faint. Kenton, do hurry, for 
the love of heaven!” and then she turned and ran 
back to the house. 


140 


the Eare oe rossvieeE haee 


When Dorothy reached the house Mrs. Lorrimer 
was still standing over Essie doing all in her power 
to bring her out of her swoon. 

“Has she not recovered yet, mamma?” Dorothy 
asked. 

“She comes out of one swoon only to fall into an- 
other,” Mrs. Lorrimer replied. “And oh ! Dorothy, 
I fear she will not get over it. If she should not, 
what would we do ?” 

“Mamma, mamma, don’t say that,” Dorothy re- 
plied. “I really could not bear that. 

In a little while Kenton returned with the doctor, 
who went to work with a will, but it was some time 
before he could do Essie any good. 

“Oh, let me die !” she whispered. “I want to die, 
for I know I can not live any longer without him.” 

“What can the child mean ?” Mrs. Lorrimer said, 
sadly, “she ‘can not live without him.’ Dorothy, get 
that letter and read it. See what is the cause of 
this.” 

She obeyed, and when she had read down to the 
place where Essie had stopped she laid the letter 
down and said, “I have found the reason, mamma. 
Claude is not coming after all. He says just as he 
was ready to start for England, the very night be- 
fore he was to start, he was robbed of all his money 
and now he must start over again. He says he can 
not tell when he would see England.” 

“Little wonder that the poor child fainted. It is 
dreadful,” Mrs. Lorrimer said, sadly. “It seems 
there is a cruel fate against Essie and Claude.” 

The old doctor looked amazed but asked no ques- 


THD E)ARI, OD ROSSVIDIvD HADD 141 

tions. He went on with his work and he finally, 
when Elsie slept, turned to Mrs. Lorrimer. “It is 
right that I should tell you that your daughter is in 
a serious condition. I fear that brain fever will 
set in.” 

“Oh, Doctor, don’t tell me that,” she said ; “don’t 
tell me my darling is going to die.” 

“I don’t wish to raise any false hopes,” he said. 
“It is just possible she may recover, but I will tell 
you this much, it will require the most skilful nurs- 
ing. It is better for you to know her exact condi- 
tion, so you can be the more careful with her. She 
must see no one except her nurses. I suggest that 
Miss Dorothy and yourself nurse her. As I have 
done all I can possibly do for her, I must go now. 
I will come again to-morrow,” and, bowing, the old 
doctor left the room. 

It was some time after the doctor had gone that 
Essie awoke and then she was delirious. When old 
Doctor Hathaway came the next day, he shook his 
head knowingly and murmured to himself, “Poor 
girl! I have never seen any one any worse from 
the start. Poor girl, poor girl, if I only could save 
you !” He shook his head again sadly. 

“It is as I feared, the fever has set in,” he said to 
Mrs. Lorrimer. “She must not know this though. 
Do not let her suspect that she is very ill. The best 
thing to do is to get her to think she will recover in 
a few days. Another thing that is against her, she 
does not want to get well.” 

The days went by and Essie did not seem to get 
any better. She tossed restlessly and talked about 


142 


the) fart of rossvillF halt 


Claude all the time. Sometimes it was evident that 
she thought she was talking with the robber, who 
stole Claude’s money, for she would say, “Go* away, 
oh, go away! Do not taunt me with that horrible 
face of yours. You stole his money and kept him 
from coming back to me! You have killed me — 
you have killed me! Now you follow me to taunt 
me! Go away, go away!” 

Then her face would assume a most frightened 
look and she would put out her hand feebly and try 
to push some one away from her. Then it seemed 
she was thinking Claude had come back, for she 
would say so softly and loving, “Oh, you have come 
back to me, my darling, in spite of all ! That wicked 
man got your money and has been tormenting me 
and telling me you would never come, but you did 
come, didn’t you, dear? We do not care for the 
money, we will be happy without it, and that is 
enough.” Then she would laugh wildly. “That 
wicked man killed me, but you have come to me, 
and I do not care if he did. We can be together 
now and the want of money will never separate us 
again.” She would talk this way an hour or so 
and then would fall into a deep sleep. 

Mrs. Lorrimer and Dorothy could hardly bear 
this and would weep bitterly. Kenton was almost 
frantic with grief. The doctor would allow no one 
in the sick room but the nurses ; even Kenton could 
not go in, and he could hardly endure it. He walked 
the floor from morning to night and each time the 
doctor came he asked eagerly if she were not just 
a little better? And the old doctor would answer 


THE EARIv OE ROSSVIIvIvE HATE 


143 


sadly, “No, my lad, no better, and I fear she will 
never be.” Then Kenton would continue his pacing 
up and down, until Dorothy would persuade him to 
lie down and try to get a little rest. 

Every day Lord Ross, Rupert or Daphne called to 
see how Essie was but of course they did not see 
her. Daphne either sent or brought a beautiful 
bouquet from the conservatory every day. Kenton 
answered Claude’s letter and told him of her illness 
and what caused it, at the same time telling him 
how grieved he was at hearing of his (Claude’s) 
misfortune, and that he would be glad to welcome 
him back to England at the earliest possible date. 

* * 5jC 5{C 

One would hardly recognize the pale, haggard- 
faced man sitting by a table reading a letter as the 
self-same strong, hopeful man who left Rossville 
Hall some three years ago. He was as handsome 
as ever, but there was a settled look of sadness on 
his handsome face, a look of disappointment and 
grief. He read steadily on until he read the very 
last word. He then passed the letter over to a man 
who sat on the other side of the table. 

“See, Uncle Roger, what I have been the means 
of doing. What a miserable wretch I am !” 

Uncle Roger took the letter, and after reading it, 
passed it back to Claude. 

“That girl loved you, my boy, more than all the 
world, and if you have lost her, you have lost a 
priceless pearl. Perhaps she is dead by this time. 
If she has, Claude, you at least know you have two 
angels in Heaven waiting for you, your sainted 


144 


THE) £ARU OT ROSSVILTE: HATIv 


mother and little Essie. O God, spare her!’’ he 
moaned, and the tears began to trickle down the old 
man’s cheeks. “Spare little Essie to her lover and 
her poor old Uncle Roger, so far away from dear 
old England.” 

Claude was too stricken with grief to speak, but 
bowed his head and wept. After a while he raised 
his head and said, “Oh, Uncle Roger, if my little 
Essie has gone I do not want to live, either. My 
little darling, how can I live out a whole lifetime 
without her?” 

And again those words that Essie had spoken the 
day he last saw her came back to him with full force, 
“If we should never meet again.” 

“Oh! merciful Heaven,” he murmured, “from 
Kenton’s letter I fear it will be that way and it will 
be so long before I can hear again. But Kenton 
said in his letter he would write again after the crisis 
and tell me if she was dead or living. Oh, God!” 
he said, brokenly, “do not let my little Essie die. 
And to think I have caused all this. If she is dead, 
I shall feel that I am her murderer.” 

“No, no, lad, don’t talk that way,” said Uncle 
Roger, “if it be God’s will for her to die young she 
would have died had she never met you.” 

“God bless that little Dorothy who watched over 
her so constantly,” murmured Claude, “and may 
His richest blessings rest on her, for her kindness 
to my blessed little angel.” 

“Claude,” said Uncle Roger, “God in all His 
mercy will surely leave us little Essie, Let us hope 


THE) EARI, OF ROSSVHJ,E HAU, 1 45 

and pray that He will. Claude, I am sure if we ask 
Him, He will spare her to us.” 

“But, Uncle Roger,” he said, “we may be too late 
for she may be gone long before this.” 

“If she has it is fate,” he replied, “but I say, let 
us hope that she is not dead.” 

“Oh, Uncle Roger,” he said, “I am too wretched 
to hope; I am too wretched to live! If Essie is 
dead I shall never go back to England. I will stay 
right here until I die.” 

“But, Claude, if our little Essie is gone,” said 
Uncle Roger, sadly, “there is a time coming when 
we can meet her again in a world where poverty can 
not part you. No sickness or death enter there.” 

“Uncle Roger,” said Claude, “that is a blessed 
hope, is it not? But to think of the long, weary 
years here on earth. It is probable that I may live 
to be a very old man and if I should you know what 
an utterly wretched life it would be with no little 
Essie. Oh ! what would I not give to be in England 
tonight to see that beautiful little face once more. 
Kenton said the doctor had but little hope for her 
and she must indeed have been very ill. If I knew 
I could reach her before she dies I would leave for 
England this very night. There is a steamer ready 
to start, and oh, if I only thought I could reach her, 
I would go.” 

“No, Claude,” said Uncle Roger, “it would be 
folly for you to go, for if she should get well you 
remember the fortune you wish to lay at her feet, 
and if you go you can not do this. If she is dead 

IO 


146 THE EARL OF' ROSSVILLE hall 

it is too late for you to go. My advice is that you 
do not go/’ 

“Uncle Roger/’ Claude said, persistently, “if I 
knew I could reach her before cruel death does, I 
would go though I should never see any more 
money.” 

“It would be folly for you to go.” 

“Well, Uncle Roger,” Claude replied, “it shall be 
as you say. I will not go, but it seems that some- 
thing whispers in my ear, ‘Go, go, before it is too 
late/ ” 

“But possibly, lad, it is too' late now,” was the 
reply. “But let us ask the Father to spare her to 
us.” 

So kneeling down, the two men sent up a prayer 
to heaven for Essie’s life. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Two long months passed and Essie did not re- 
cover nor did she seem to be very much better. One 
night Dorothy persuaded Mrs. Lorrimer to lie down 
for a little rest. There was no one in the room 
but Dorothy. When Essie opened her eyes Dorothy 
saw that she did not have the vacant stare into empty 
space that they dreaded so much to see. She gazed 
long and earnestly at Dorothy. 

“Why am I so 1 weak, Dorothy? I can hardly 
raise my hand/’ 

“You have been very ill,” Dorothy replied, “but 
you are better now and will be well again in just a 
few days.” 

“No, Dorothy,” she said, “I don’t think I shall 
ever be well any more. I am going to die, Dorothy 
dear. I am almost sure I shall.” 

“Oh, no,” Dorothy replied. “You must not talk 
that way. It only makes you more nervous. You 
will not die. The doctor says there will be a change 
in your condition in one or two days and, of course, 
this change will be for the better.” 

“Oh, Dorothy, where is my hair?” she asked. My 
hair that Claude always called so beautiful.” 

“We had it cut off, Essie, dear, so you would get 
well. I think you had better not talk any more 
now.” 

“I am no better, — it, — it can’t hurt me,” Essie 
continued. “Dorothy, you know where Claude’s pic- 
ture and all his letters are, do you not?” 


148 


the: dart od rossvitte hatt 


“Yes,” she replied. 

“Go get them/' said Essie. 

“What? You are not going to try to read them, 
are you?” Dorothy asked in amazement. 

“No, no,” she replied. “I could not if I should 
try. I want you to read them to me.” 

“No, Essie,” Dorothy replied; “that will never 
do. I will get his picture for you ; you are too weak 
to listen to them. Wait a few more days until you 
are stronger, then I will read them for you.” 

“Very well,” she said, sadly, “but in a few more 
days I will not be here. I am almost sure I will 
not.” 

“Don’t talk so, Essie,” said Dorothy, as she arose 
to get the picture. She brought it to her and Essie 
gazed at it for a long time, then pressing the picture 
to her lips, murmured, “And to think I must go and 
leave you! But God’s will, not mine, be done.” 

With a weary sigh, she closed her eyes and fell 
asleep, with the picture pressed close to her heart. 

When she awoke Mrs. Lorrimer was in the room. 
Dorothy had told her that Essie had seemed a little 
better, but she did not tell her how she had been 
talking, for she knew it would trouble her immeas- 
urably. 

Essie was very quiet all that night, and when the 
doctor came the next day he found her asleep. Mrs. 
Lorrimer told him she had seemed quieter and better 
and he would not let her be wakened. But when 
he was ready to go Dorothy went with him to the 
door and told him what Essie had been saying 
about dying. 


TH£ SARI, OS ROSSVISSS HASS 


149 


The old doctor shook his head again, as he always 
did when he was anxious, and said, “A bad 
symptom, Miss Dorothy, a bad symptom. I fear 
this trouble is not yet over.” 

That evening Mrs. Lorrimer left the room 
awhile and Dorothy was with Essie when she 
awoke. 

“Dorothy,” said Essie, “I am glad we are alone, 
for. I would not tell mamma. I did not want to 
put any more trouble on her than she has already. 
But I mean to- tell you, Dorothy, for you are more 
able to hear me out than mamma would be. Please 
do not interrupt me while I am telling you. Will 
you promise me this ?” 

“Yes,” Dorothy replied. 

“I am going to die, Dorothy. I shall never see 
my Claude again in this world. I wish to send him 
many loving messages, and I am sure you will 
deliver them for me. Will you, dear?” 

“Yes,” she replied. “I shall tell him word for 
word. But, Essie, I say you will not die. God, in 
all His mercy, will not take you from us.” 

“Dorothy, you promised to not interrupt me, and 
please do not any more.” 

“Forgive me, Essie,” Dorothy sadly said. “I will 
not do so again.” 

“I do not mind death in the least, Dorothy, but I 
do hate so much to leave mamma and Kenton and 
you, my dear little sister, for you have indeed been 
all a sister could be. And oh ! Dorothy, it is dread- 
ful to die without seeing Claude again! But as 


1 50 THE) £ARI, OF ROSSVIFFF HAU, 

he said, ‘We will meet again in Heaven/ But how 
I should like to live to see him come back and have 
him make me his wife. Tell him how I wished this, 
Dorothy, and tell him, too, that I was not afraid to 
die, and that I am sure I shall meet his mother in 
Heaven, and that dear little sister of whom he 
talked so much. I shall tell them what a good boy 
our Claude is — for of course they have a very dear 
claim on him, too. And I shall tell them I loved 
him. Tell him I remained true to him and loved 
him more each day of my life. Take that lily in 
the box with his letters and give it to him. He 
gave it to me, Dorothy, one day long ago — oh, it 
seems so very long ago ! I was happy then, as 
happy and light-hearted as you are, Dorothy. But 
it was our destiny to be parted, and I must not com- 
plain. Give him the lily, dear, and tell him it is the 
last gift from his little Essie. And tell him always 
to keep my picture and that little curl as mementoes 
of the time when he loved a little girl in old Eng- 
land, and when he looks at the curl to remember it 
was the day before he left me I gave it to him. Oh ! 
Dorothy, how can I die when I have so much to 
live for. I did not want to get well at first, but I 
do now, for I know Claude will be grieved when 
he hears that I am dead. I do not want him to be 
grieved. And tell him, Dorothy, that when 1 am 
gone and another takes my place, will he not some- 
times look at my picture and think of his first love, 
who will then be sleeping in the old church-yard. 
And tell him I hope that other one will make as 


THE) E)ART OT ROSSVITIvE: HAHIv 15 1 

faithful and loving a wife as I should have always 
tried to be. Tell him his name shall be the last on 
my lips. And Dorothy, bury his picture and letters 
with me and the little ring he gave me. Tell him 
that I watched for his coming, only I watched in 
vain, and that I know that his love is still true. 
Tell him, Dorothy, I loved him to the last, and then 
give him my last farewell. And now, Dorothy, 
draw aside the curtain, please, so that I may see the 
sunset. What a glorious sunset,” she murmured, 
“I wonder if Claude is watching this same sunset. 
See, Dorothy, the sun is almost gone — so is my life. 
It is sinking with the sun. Before that same sun 
rises again, I think I will not be here to watch it.” 

She watched the sun till the last crimson ray had 
faded from the west. “Gone, so will I be tomor- 
row,” then slowly closed her eyes and fell asleep. 

When she awoke again she was delirious. 

Kenton started for Doctor Hathaway, as Mrs. 
Lorrimer feared Essie was growing worse. When 
the old doctor arrived he told Dorothy that he 
thought the crisis would come in a very short time, 
and that he could allow no one in the room and that 
he must ask that she and Mrs. Lorrimer go away, 
and when she awoke she must not see any one except 
him. They left the room and the old doctor was 
left alone with his patient. Slowly the hours 
dragged by. The house was as silent as the tomb. 
Dorothy sat by Mrs. Lorrimer’s side holding her 
hand in her own warm grasp, and tried to comfort 
the heart-broken mother. Slowly the hours went 


152 


THE) E)ART OT ROSSVITTE) HA TT 


by, and it seemed an eternity to the anxious ones in 
waiting. 

The doctor sat by Essie’s bedside holding his 
fingers on her feeble pulse, with an open watch in 
the other hand, counting each of the feeble beats. 
It was nearly midnight. Essie continued in the 
same way. At last the pulse beats are a little faster, 
then a little stronger, the old doctor holds his 
breath in anxiety. The pulse grows a little 
stronger at each beat, the doctor has a little hope 
yet. Finally the blue eyes flash suddenly open, then 
she closes them again and falls into a deep sleep. 

“She will live,” muttered the old doctor. “She 
will live.” 

He went to Mrs. Lorrimer, and shaking a warn- 
ing finger at her to keep from making any out- 
cry, he said, “Praise God, Mrs. Lorrimer, she will 
live!” 

“Thank God ! Oh ! thank God for all his mercy ! 
I did not think He would take my child from me; 
and I must thank you, too,” she whispered, grasping 
the doctor’s hand in both her own. “For had it not 
been for your careful watching, I do not know what 
the result might have been.” 

“Will she get well?” said Kenton, coming into 
the room softly. 

“Yes,” he replied, “with care she will.” 

“She shall have that,” said Dorothy. 

“Yes,” said Doctor Hathaway, “I think you owe 
your daughter’s life to Miss Dorothy, Mrs. Lorri- 
mer. She is the best nurse I know to be so young. 


the: sari, OS ROSSVITTK hats 153 

But I must return to Essie, for it is probable that 
she may awake. I advise you all to lie down and 
sleep the rest of the night.” 

“I can lay down to rest, but I don’t think I can 
sleep — I am too happy to sleep,” said Dorothy. 

“Oh ! thank Heaven that she did not die,” mur- 
mured Kenton. “Now, mother, see what a blessing 
our little girl has been to- us; the doctor said you 
owed Essie’s life to Dorothy’s careful nursing.” 

“No, it was not that,” said Dorothy. “It was 
God’s will. Had it been His will for her to die, all 
of my nursing would not have saved her.” 

On the following morning Essie was very much 
better and the doctor said she would be quite well 
now in a few weeks. 

Kenton was allowed to go in and see her, the 
first time since her illness. He was prepared to see 
her thin and pale, but he was not prepared to see 
her fallen away and so wasted as she was. She 
was asleep and Kenton did not speak to her. He 
lingered in the room as long as the doctor would 
allow him, to, then he went to his room and, as he 
promised, he wrote a letter to Claude, telling him 
that Essie would recover. 

Words cannot express the joy with which this 
letter was read by Claude and Uncle Roger. They 
laughed and cried by turns, all the while thanking 
God for His goodness and mercy. 

“I told you, my boy, that God would spare her 
if we would ask Him in good earnest,” said Uncle 
Roger, “and now you see He has. It will require a 


i54 


the: e:art o t rossvitte: hate, 


lifetime of work in His behalf to 1 praise Him for 
this.^ 

“And that is just the thing I mean to do the rest 
of my life,” Claude replied. “But if I should live 
to be a thousand years of age and work for God all 
that time, I could never repay Him half for saving 
this precious life. Oh ! if she had died, what would 
have become of me? As I told her once long ago, I 
don’t think I should have been long in following her 
to that long resting place.” 


CHAPTER XVII 

Two weeks had elapsed since the crisis in Essie’s 
illness. Under Dorothy’s watchful care Essie was 
slowly recovering. One day Dorothy was sitting 
by her bedside and they were talking of that even- 
ing Essie thought she was going to die. “Yes, 
Essie,” said Dorothy, “you thought you were going 
to die, when I told you all along you would not.” 

“But, Dorothy, I could not help thinking that 
way,” Essie replied, with a vain attempt at a smile. 
“I was just as sure that I was going to die as I am 
that you are sitting by my bed now. It seemed that 
something told me I would never get well again.” 

“And that old something was a false prophet,” 
said Dorothy, smiling sweetly. “And what luck for 
Claude that it was. And all those messages you sent 
to Claude,” she laughed, catching up Essie’s hand 
and pressing it to her lips. “I guess I will let you 
tell him all that your sweet- little self, for I don’t 
mean to talk for you when you can talk for your- 
self.” 

“When Claude comes home you will not have the 
chance to do any talking for me, or yourself either, 
for that matter. I will do enough talking for six 
girls ; no one else will have the chance to say a word 
to him,” Essie said. “I shall have so much to tell 
him I am sure I shall not get through in a lifetime. 
It would take a lifetime to tell him how well I love 
him, and then I could not tell him half. But there 
are other things besides that I must tell him. One 


1 56 the: SART or rossvhxe: hatt, 

thing, for instance — I must tell him what a good 
little girl you are. Then he will love you, for being 
so good to his little Essie. But you are not only 
good to me. You are kind to every one. I am sure 
everybody loves you. I know Rupert does.” 

“No, he does not,” said Dorothy, blushing. 

“Has he ever told you he did?” Essie asked. 

“No,” Dorothy replied. “Nor do I think he 
will.” 

“I am sure he will some day,” said Essie, “for I 
know he loves you. ‘Actions speak louder than 
words/ When he comes to visit Kenton he always 
puts in the greatest portion of the time talking with 
you. He says he comes to see Kenton, but it seems 
strange that he should talk with Dorothy all the 
while.” 

“Well,” said Dorothy, “that is because Daphne 
comes with him and Kenton talks to- her all the time. 
What can Rupert do but talk to me?” 

“Well,” said Essie, teasingly, “Daphne does not 
come every time Rupert does, and I can see no 
difference when she does not come. Besides, he 
could talk to you without looking at you all the 
while so lovingly that no one can fail to guess what 
he considers ‘a great secret/ But I don’t blame him 
for loving you. No one could help that.” 

“You must not try to flatter me, Essie,” she re- 
plied. “If you do, I shall punish you by not letting 
you have a single look at Claude’s picture for a 
whole day.” 

“Well,” said Essie, “if that is the penalty I must 


THE) e:ARIv OT ROSSVHXS HAIX 


157 


pay, I will not tell you another thing that I have 
read in Rupert’s eyes when he looks at you.” 

In two weeks more Essie was so much better that 
she was able to sit up in an easy chair pulled up by 
that self-same window where Claude had sat the 
evening he first came to Mrs. Lorrimer’s. And in 
one more week she was so much better that Kenton 
said he thought she was well enough for him to go 
back to college, and SO' in a few days he and Rupert 
went back to' Eton. 

But before they left, Rupert’s twentieth birthday 
had come and he reminded his father of the promise 
he made, relative to his making a will and bequeath- 
ing the earldom to Claude Ross. The Earl thought 
Rupert had long since forgotten this as he had not 
been reminded of it since the day he made the 
promise. 

“Now, father,” said Rupert, “you know you made 
me this promise, and you have always said you had 
never been known to break a promise, so please do 
not break this one. I want the earldom less than 
ever now. You said I would think better of it as I 
grew older, but I do not, and now before I leave for 
college again, please do this for me.” 

“Rupert,” said his father, hesitatingly, “I can do 
this to keep my promise to you, but if I had thought 
you would still be so foolish as to wish it, I would 
never have made you the promise. I fear you will 
regret this step some day.” 

“I am sure I shall not, father,” Rupert replied. 
“Do not let that trouble you any more. But do not 


158 the: PART OP ROSSVITTP HATIv 

let mamma know of this/’ he continued, “for I am 
sure she would not approve of it.” 

“Neither do I,” the Earl replied. 

“But I can persuade you,” said Rupert, “and I 
cannot persuade mother. And understand, this is to 
be a secret. I do not want any one to know of this 
but you and the lawyers who do the work, and 
please give them to understand it is a secret. Will 
you do' this?” 

“Yes,” said the Earl, very unwillingly. 

So it was settled that the earldom should come to 
Claude at the present Earl’s death, and Rupert and 
Kenton went back to school, the former very happy 
because he had succeeded in persuading his father 
to do as he wished. 

The boys were very glad to be studying once 
more, as they were anxious to finish their educa- 
tion. Their old chums were delighted to see them — 
“the two best boys in school,” as they were termed. 
When they had been gone about a month Essie re- 
ceived a letter from Claude telling her how thank- 
ful he was that his darling was left to him, and 
what a dreadful long time it had been since he had 
received a letter from her. But he was sure that by 
the time his letter reached her she would be well 
enough to write him a long letter. He told her 
what a sad time it was for him and Uncle Roger 
when he received Kenton’s letter stating how ill she 
was, and how it seemed a century before he received 
his last letter. He told her that since he had started 
over again the money came faster than ever, and he 


The: EARI, OT ROSSVIIvT^ HALT/ 


159 


did not think she would have to wait three more 
years for his return. When he had closed his letter 
he added a postscript, telling Essie to convey his 
thanks to that little Dorothy of whom Kenton spoke 
in such high terms, for being so diligent in her 
efforts to save her life, and to tell her he was sure 
he should like her very much. 

“There!” said Essie, when she was through tell- 
ing Dorothy this. “Didn’t I fell you he would like 
you for being so kind to me.” 

“Well,” said Dorothy, “when you answer his 
letter you just tell him I don’t deserve any thanks 
for what I have done. I did not do near so much 
for you as you have done for me. Now will you tell 
him this ?” she said, coaxingly. 

“Yes,” said Essie, “I will tell him you said this. 
But of course I shall tell him that you do deserve 
thanks, and are just a little sunbeam in our home. 
I really do not see how we could do without you. 
Dorothy,” Essie continued, “what a lucky thing 
for us all that Kenton brought you home with him.” 

“I declare, Essie, you will spoil me,” said 
Dorothy, playfully. “You make so much of me that 
if you don’t be careful you will make me vain.” 

“No danger of that,” Essie replied. “But I won’t 
try to convince you of that now. I must write a 
letter, a very long, loving letter, to some one Tar 
o’er the deep blue sea.’ ” 

Dorothy went to* the piano and began to sing and 
Essie stopped her writing and listened. When 
Dorothy was through with the song Essie said, 


160 the: e:art OK ROSSVIIvTK hath 

“Dorothy, sing that beautiful song for me that you 
so seldom sing, for you know who it reminds me of. 
And I think it the prettiest of all.” 

Dorothy ran her fingers lightly over the keys, and 
then in a low voice she sang the little song : 

“ Tve gathered wild flowers from the hillside 
To wreathe around my brow, 

But so long thou hast kept me waiting 
They are dead and withered now. 

“ ‘Will you never come again 

With your bright and merry smile? 

Will you never come again 
My lonely hours to beguile? 

“ ‘In bright-lighted halls I have wandered, 

Where all was mirth and glee; 

But my heart was sad and dreary, 

I could not be with thee/ ” 

When she had finished singing, Essie said, 
“Dorothy, do you not think that song suits me ex- 
actly ?” 

“Yes,” she replied, “I think it does, for no matter 
how gay the company you are in, you still have that 
sad, lonely look on your face, and all because you 
cannot be with Claude. I think the song suits ex- 
actly. But that song is too mournful,” she said, 
turning again to the piano. “I like something 
lively,” and she struck the opening chords to a lively 
and comic little song and began singing. 

Essie again turned to her writing. 

When the letter was finished, Essie went over to 
Dorothy. 

“I am sure I am well enough to walk to the 


TH£ KARL 0£ ROSSVIIXlO HAIX l6l 

village to post this letter. I have been in the house 
such a long time, but of course I must ask my nurse 
about that. Do you think I can go?” 

“Yes,” said Dorothy, “for my part I think it will 
do you good to get out for a little exercise, and it is 
not far to the village.” 

“Thank you,” said Essie. “Such a kind little 
nurse as you are. But you must come with me.” 

“All right,” said Dorothy, “I’m just dying for a 
walk,” and catching up her hat, she bounded out 
the door and down the walk to the gate without 
once stopping till she reached the gate. 

She then turned and called to Essie to make 
haste; she wanted to go. Essie smiled, and told 
her that it certainly looked that way. 

“But I don’t mean to go all the way at that gait,” 
she called, “for I don’t want to leave you.” 

When Essie came up with her, Dorothy put her 
arm lovingly around her waist and told her she 
would wager she could walk just as slow as she 
could. 

“I have not the least idea but what you can,” 
Essie replied, “for you generally accomplish all you 
undertake.” 

They soon reached the village and Essie posted 
her letter, while Dorothy inquired if there were a let- 
ter for her. The postmaster passed her one, and she 
exclaimed, “Well, I declare! Essie, look here. 
Who has had the goodness to write to me. This is 
not Daphne’s writing.” 

And as soon as they reached the outskirts of the 

ii 


1 62 THE EARIv OR ROSSVITIvE HATE 

village Dorothy opened the letter with an exclama- 
tion of surprise. 

“Well, Essie/’ she said, turning to her, “who- do 
you suppose this is from?” 

“Well, I think I can tell from your looks who it 
is from,” Essie replied. “You are blushing red as 
a rose. I will say Rupert. How is that for guess- 
ing?” 

“Good,” said Dorothy; “that’s just who it is 
from, and as Kenton is always saying, ‘My! but 
isn’t this a splendid surprise.’ Here, Essie, you just 
look on and read with me.” 

“Now I consider this a treat, to let me read your 
letter before you read it yourself.” 

“Well, I’m sure there’s no secret in it,” Dorothy 
replied; “or even if there were, it would be no 
secret from you. I can not keep a secret from you, 
and I may as well let you read it.” 

“Ah, ha!” exclaimed Essie, when she had read 
down a little way. “See this, Dorothy ! He says : 
‘As I cannot help thinking of you all the time, I 
thought I would write you a letter, and I sincerely 
hope you will favor me with an answer/ How is 
that for a start, Dorothy ? I told you the boy loved 
you.” 

“Oh, he has not said so,” said Dorothy, smiling. 
“He only says he thinks of me.” 

“I know he has not said that yet,” Essie replied. 
“But we have not finished reading the letter. We 
cannot tell what the letter contains since we have 
not read it. And even if it does not contain that, I 


the; dart o d rossvittd hatt 163 

am sure that makes no difference. He will tell you 
some day, sooner or later.” 

“Oh! hush, Essie,” she said, as she playfully 
placed her finger over Essie’s lips. “You won’t stop 
talking long enough to let me read my letter, when 
you know I’m just dying to hear from ‘My Rupert.’ 
There!” she said. “See what a mistake you caused 
me to* make. I didn’t mean to call him mine. That 
slipped.” 

“Oh,” said Essie, laughing, “you are always mak- 
ing mistakes on purpose.” 

“No, no,” she replied; “but here you are talking 
again, and I’m going to faint if I don’t soon get to 
read ‘My Rupert’s’ letter. Oh, dear, I meant to say 
my letter from Rupert,” and she rolled her eyes 
about in a comical way and had Essie laughing 
more than she had laughed altogether since Claude 
had been gone. 

“Dorothy, you are a naughty girl,” Essie said, 
“to make one laugh when they do not feel like 
laughing.” 

“Yes, but, Essie, do you not know it is also 
naughty to* laugh at one’s mistakes,” and she shook 
her head sagely. 

“Hush, Dorothy, and read your letter,” Essie 
said, trying to keep from laughing, “and don’t try 
to look as wise as an owl, for you can’t put on a 
solemn look for long at a time.” 

So they talked on and on until they reached home, 
without reading the letter. But Dorothy did not do 
this because she did not appreciate the letter, she 


164 TH£ earl OI' ROSSVIU^ HAIJL, 

only wanted to cheer Essie up. But when they 
reached home she drew an easy chair up for Essie, 
and getting another for herself, she eagerly read 
Rupert’s letter. Before commencing, however, she 
told Essie she did not mean to let her read her letter, 
as punishment for being such a chatterbox on the 
way home. But when she finished reading she laid 
the letter in Essie’s lap. 

Essie read it and passed it back to Dorothy, with 
a look as much as to say, “If I only had not prom- 
ised to be good, I have found the best thing in the 
world to tease you about.” 

“When will you answer this, Dorothy,” she 
asked. 

“Oh ! some time before we are married,” laughed 
Dorothy, then, catching her breath, she said, “Dear 
me. There’s another of those dreadful mistakes! 
I meant to say, I would answer it some time before 
he is married.” 

“Why use the singular number? You may as 
well let it go at that, for it will all turn out that 
way,” said Essie. 

“No,” said Dorothy, “I don’t really think it will, 
and you must not think so, either, for if you do, you 
will be sadly disappointed. Rupert Ross would not 
marry a poor girl like Dorothy Donald,” and, 
rising, she ran away to help Mrs. Lornmer about 
preparing the evening meal. 


CHAPTER XVIII 

One morning, about two months after the events 
in the last chapter, Dorothy and Essie went to the 

town of S to do some shopping. It was 

Dorothy’s first visit to the city since she ran away 
from Mrs. Miller. She had always been afraid to 
go back, for fear that she would meet Mrs. Miller. 
But now she told Essie that she had grown so much 
and changed so in appearance that should she meet 
Mrs. Miller, Mrs. Miller would not know her, and 
that it was no matter if she did, for she could take 
her own part. So she started in high spirits, little 
thinking of the trouble it would bring her. 

She and Essie had almost finished their shopping. 
They intended to take the four o’clock train, and it 
was almost that time now. As they were going 
down the street, they were compelled to pass an ill- 
looking grog shop, the door of which was standing 
open. Dorothy glanced in as she passed, and who 
should she see but her old foe, Mrs. Miller? She 
hurried by, but the old woman saw her, and she 
muttered to herself, “That looks mighty like that 
little impudent vagabond that left me. Yes, it is.” 

As Dorothy and Essie passed on down the street 
they met a young man who stared at Dorothy im- 
pudently and muttered, “By Jove! there’s a beauty 
for me, if I can find out where she stays. I see my 
old woman down the street. I’ll just tell her that 
that girl just suits my eye.” This frightened the 
two girls very much and they hurried on to the 


1 66 THE) E)ARIv ot rossvitte; halt 

depot without making any more purchases. They 
were not a little surprised to see the same young 
man enter the waiting room a little after they did 
and seat himself just opposite them. He continued 
to stare at Dorothy, to the girls’ great annoyance. 
When the train pulled in, they were more annoyed 
than ever, for the young man boarded the train 
directly after them. 

But we must go back now to Mrs. Miller, whom 
we left standing in the door of the grog shop gazing 
after Dorothy and muttering curses on her head. 
The young man hurriedly walked up to her and 
said, “Mrs. Miller, did you see those two girls that 
just passed here?” 

“Yes,” she replied, “and I hate one of the little 
vipers like ‘pizen.’ ” 

“Well, I don’t care anything about your hating. 
I want to know if you know who that one is on the 
left side, the low one with the brown hair?” 

“Yes, that’s the gal I hate, and if you will get her 
in your possession I will work for you six months 
free of charge.” 

“That’s the thing I want to do,” he said. “But 
where does she live?” 

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Miller replied. “But I 
know she don’t stay in this city.” 

“You old fool,” he said, “why didn’t you tell me 
this before now? I’ve lost sight of her now and 
don’t know if I can find her again. You stay here 
till I call for you, if it’s doom’s day — do you hear?” 


THE) e:ARIv OF ROSSVHJvF HATIv 167 

and turning he hurried down the street in the direc- 
tion Dorothy and Essie had gone. 

He was about discouraged when, looking down 
a side street, he saw them. He walked rapidly — 
almost ran — till he turned the corner; he then 
slackened his pace, as he did not want them to see 
him. However, they did not see him, nor did they 
suspect that he was following them until he entered 
the waiting room. But when, in the train, he saw 
that he had raised their suspicion, he bought a book 
and settled down as if for a long journey, and he 
did not appear to notice the two girls. This served 
to throw them off their guard, and they thought 
perhaps they were wrong in suspecting the man 
after all. 

When the train reached Rossville they got off, but 
did not see that the stranger did also. The last they 
had noticed him he had laid his book down and 
leaned his head on the seat in front of him, and was 
to all appearances asleep. But when the train 
stopped he ventured to raise his head just in time 
to see Dorothy and Essie leaving the train, and, 
muttering to himself, “So I’ve tracked you, my 
pretty bird, to your nest/’ he seized his hat and left 
the car. 

Dorothy and Essie started immediately for home, 
as it was growing dusk, but they were not afraid 
to go 1 alone, for it was a short distance. They 
talked freely now, as they had no suspicion that any- 
one was following them. 

“Gracious ! Dorothy/’ said Essie, “but didn’t 
that young man act strangely?” 


1 68 the: sari, ot rossvitts hast 

“Yes,” said Dorothy. “He frightened me almost 
to death.” 

“Yes, and I’ll frighten you more than ever in a 
few days,” the man thought to himself, as he walked 
on behind them, listening to every word they said. 
“I wish everything was ready. I think now would 
be as good a chance as I shall ever have; but there’s 
no need to think of that, for I can’t take the little 
beauty with me tonight.” 

Essie and Dorothy walked on until they came to 
Mrs. Bishop’s, where they stopped and called for 
Mrs. Lorrimer, who had been spending the day 
there. She came out and the three soon reached 
home. Dorothy and Essie were not very sorry, for 
they were greatly fatigued, and they soon retired, 
after having told Mrs. Lorrimer how they were 
frightened at a young man who stared at them so 
persistently. 

The young man followed them to their home, 
then went back to the station, which he reached just 
in time to catch the next train back to the city. It 
was growing very late when he reached the grog 
shop where he had left Mrs. Miller, whom he now 
found sitting up against the wall at the end of the 
room, snoring loudly. He shook her roughly. 

“Is this what I pay you for?” he said, “to sit up 
and sleep. Why aren’t you on the lookout for some 
other pretty little bird ?” 

“I did look,” she sullenly said, “but couldn’t see 
any and I was sleepy.” 

“Well, come along now, I have some news for 
you.” 


THE) SARI, OR ROSSVIU.S HA IX 1 69 



They walked on till they reached the same 
wretched old house where Dorothy had lived. They 
entered, and, throwing himself in an old chair he 
said, “Well, Mrs. Miller, I have found the bird’s 
nest. She lives out from the city a few miles at a 
little place called Rossville — I followed to her own 
door. It is more than twenty miles from here and 
as you have helped me many times before, I want 
you to help me this time, and I assure you, I will 
pay you well.” 

“No pay do I want to help you get that girl, for 
I hate her. It would do me good to see her 
groveling in the dust. She left me, but if she don’t 
kvatch out she will be glad to crawl back to me 
yet.” 

“No,” he said, with an ugly smile, “I can give her 
a better home than you — that is, for a while. I may 
turn her out in the streets some day and tell her 
to go.” 

“Won’t that be glorious revenge?” the old woman 
said, and laughed wildly. “She always was a 
proud little minx, and won’t it take that pride out of 
her, though ? And won’t she be glad to come back 
to me yet!” and again the old woman laughed 
loudly. 

“But when are you going to fetch her here, Ben ? 
I’m just so anxious to get hold of her once more! 
I’ll teach her how to go off and leave me, the 
worthless little vagabond,” and the old woman’s 
hawk-like eyes snapped viciously, and she clinched 
her hand. “Sarah Miller don’t often forget or for- 


170 


the) kart ok rossvittK hatt 


give an injury, but of all the revenge I have ever 
got, this will be the sweetest. Oh ! won’t she come 
down off that high pedestal! But wait, only wait! 
Her time is coming.” 

“Yes,” the man replied, “and it will not be long in 
getting here.” 

“The quicker the better,” she said. “But how 
are you going to- get her here?” 

“HI work that part of it,” he said. “You just 
have things ready for her when she does get here.” 

“And Til do that,” she said; “I’ll do that. I wish 
I had my fingers around the little minx’s neck right 
now. I could strangle the life out of her.” 

“No, that would not do,” he said, quietly. “It 
might suit you, but it would not suit me. Now, you 
understand, when I bring her here, you are not to 
forget yourself so far as to undertake anything like 
that.” 

“No, I shan’t do that,” she replied. “The other 
will be the best plan. Now what is it you want me 
to do?” 

“Just the same as you have done,” he said. “You 
know what you always do as well as I, so what’s 
the need of asking? I am going out to Rossville 
tomorrow night and stay there till I trap the bird. 
Don’t you leave this house, for I am liable to come 
at any time. I’ll bring you down enough gin to 
last till I come back. I will do' this tomorrow, and 
now all you’ve got to do is keep your mouth shut.” 

When he had gone the old woman shook her fist 
threateningly and muttered, “The proud little 


the) DARiv of rossviixf hall 17 i 

hypocrite ! I would be glad to drag her down in the 
lowest pit. I’ve helped to drag more innocent-look- 
ing things than her down — there’s no use asking 
mercy of Sarah Miller.” 

After Dorothy had left, Mrs. Miller had to go 
to work or starve, so she began to take in washing. 
She washed for Ben Thomas, and one day he asked 
her if she would not like to earn her money in an 
easier way? “Yes,” she had replied, “of course I 
would. But where am I to earn it any easier, and 
how ?” 

“Here in this city,” he replied, “and I’ll tell you 
how. Just keep boarding house.” 

The old woman laughed at this. “I say, keep a 
boarding house, when I don’t get enough money to 
feed myself and to buy gin.” 

“You don’t understand me,” he said. “What I 
want you to do is to keep a boarder just once in 
awhile. Sometimes I take a fancy to people, and 
they don’t me, but I just lock them up till they do 
take a fancy to me. Are you easy persuaded?” he 
asked, eyeing her closely. “If you are you are not 
the woman I need, for sometimes these people will 
try to persuade you to let them get away. But you 
must not do it, no matter how much money they 
offer you. I’ll double any amount they offer. Now 
that is the kind of a boarding house I mean. Do 
you understand me ?” 

“Yes,” she said; “but if they don’t offer me any 
money, what are you going to give me for my 
work?” 


172 


THE) SARIv OR ROSSVITIvE) haix 


‘Til keep you in plenty of nice things to eat, and 
all the gin you want, and a new dress occasionally. 
Now, how does that strike you? Is it a bargain ?” 

“You bet it is,” she replied, “that’s easier than 
working yourself to death. Do you mean to say I 
won’t have any work to do ?” 

“No,” he replied, “nothing but cooking for the 
boarders, and that won’t be much trouble.” 

“No,” she said, “that will be nothing compared 
with the hard work that I have to do. I’m not able 
to work ; I am sick all the time, everything goes to 
my head.” 

The man smiled at this and thought he had found 
the very one he needed. 

“But you haven’t promised me not to let any of 
them go,” he continued. 

“Well, I will promise. Of course I shan’t let any 
of them go. I would be a brainless old fool to let 
one go when I was getting pay for keeping them 
there.” 

“Well,” he said, handing her some money, “this 
is to get ready for the boarders.” 

“Oh! What a kind young man you are,” she 
said, “to help a poor old woman that’s not able to 
work, because her head is out of order.” 

No sooner had Ben Thomas left her she went to 
the grog shop and drank all she could and then 
started for home. But she did not get very far, for 
she tumbled over in the gutter. A policeman came 
along, and helping her up, he started with her to 
the station house. It was, however, the very same 


THE SARI, OF ROSSVIUvF HAU, 


173 


policeman who had arrested her the evening she 
gave chase to Kenton and Dorothy. He told her 
to wake up and walk. 

“I can’t walk/’ she said, “I’m sick. Everything 
goes to my head.” 

“Yes, I see it does,” the policeman answered. 
“But I think you had better walk, if you don’t want 
to be dragged, for I am very sure I will not try to 
carry you. I thought I told you never to let me 
catch you on the streets drunk again.” 

“Why, I wasn’t on the street, I was in the gutter, 
and I’m no more drunk than you are. I think it’s 
nice that a poor old woman can’t get sick and fall 
into the gutter without a policeman must come 
along and arrest her, and accuse her of being drunk, 
when she’s no more drunk than an angel in Heaven, 
and wouldn’t it look nice for an angel to be walking 
the streets of Heaven drunk.” 

“That is enough of your rubbish. I don’t want 
to hear you open your mouth again.” 

So they went on to the station house. 

But when she got out the next morning she cursed 
the policeman for all she could think of, and bought 
a bottle of gin, but she did not drink it until she 
reached home, for fear of being arrested again. 
She stayed drunk until all this money was gone, but 
Ben Thomas soon supplied her with more, and she 
had been in this condition ever since Dorothy left 
her. 


CHAPTER XIX 

The following morning Ben Thomas took Mrs. 
Miller enough gin to last her until his return, and, 
again warning her to keep her mouth shut and to be 
ready for them at any time, he secured a closed car- 
riage and set out to drive the twenty miles through 
the country, taking with him a man whom he had 
hired on purpose for this kind of business. This 
man was a big, broad-shouldered fellow with sandy 
hair and little greenish eyes, a prominent nose and 
a rosy complexion. He was a bad man, of course, 
or no matter what the pay, he would not have 
helped Thomas with his diabolical scheme. He was 
exactly the sort of man Ben Thomas wanted for 
the business; a man that would stoop to do any- 
thing for money. It was hardly dusk when they 
drove into the little wood between Mrs. Lorrimer’s 
home and Rossville. 

Ben Thomas got out of the carriage, and, telling 
the man to wait there for further orders, he left the 
wood and walked slowly down the road towards 
Mrs. Lorrimer’s. By the time he reached the cot- 
tage it was dark, and, opening the gate softly, he 
walked in and up to the window. An exclama- 
tion of surprise almost escaped him when he saw 
the three women seated around a table sewing and 
evidently alone. 

“Not a man on the place,” he murmured; “that 
makes it easier for me. I can’t do anything tonight, 
though, for they are shut up for the night. I may 


THE EART OE ROSSVIEEE HAEE 


175 


as well go back/’ and, turning, he made his way out 
of the yard as softly as he had come in. Going back 
to the edge of the wood, he gave a peculiar whistle, 
and the carriage came quietly and quickly. 

“Well done, Joe/’ he said to the driver. “I was 
only giving you a little practice. I wanted to see 
how quick you could get here when I gave the 
signal. But I shan’t do that any more, for I see. 
You may know the next time I give you that signal 
there is work for you to do.” 

“What ! Haven’t you got the gal ?” he ex- 
claimed, in a disappointed tone. “I was in hopes 
you would have no trouble. I was sure you had 
got her and I was just preparing for the fun.” 

“No, Joe,” he replied, “I haven’t got her. I 
didn’t try. But she and the other girl and an old 
woman live alone down the road here just a little 
way. Not a man on the place, do you understand? 
It will be an easy matter to get the girl.” 

“Why not play burglar? Go in tonight and not 
steal anything but the gal,” said the man. 

“No, that is the very last thing I will try. But 
I’ll do that rather than miss getting her, and having 
all this trouble for nothing. But we won’t stay in 
Rossville tonight — it might # cause suspicion. We 
will go back to that inn we passed about a mile the 
other side of the village and put up there. What 
great luck that this wood is here! But if anybody 
should see you and ask any questions, you tell 
them you have a sick mother just across the coun- 
try a piece, and are going over to see her, so as to 


176 thd dart od rossvittd hatt 

bring her home with you if she is able, and that 
you had been driving fast and had stopped to cool 
the horses off a bit. Do you understand ?” he said, 
as he sprang lightly into the carriage. 

“Yes,” said the man, doggedly. 

“Tell them anything you like, so you don’t tell 
them what we did come for,” continued Thomas. 
“Now drive on.” 

They left the wood and soon reached the inn, 
where they put up for the night. The landlord 
told them they could stay and did not ask any 
questions. 

* * • * * 

The next day was to be a very busy one with 
Mrs. Lorrimer and the two girls, as they had 
planned to sew all day. Dorothy seemed to be 
happier than usual and when she was not singing 
to herself she was talking and laughing gaily. It 
was growing late in the afternoon and they had 
been sewing all day. Dorothy was just cutting a 
piece of cloth, when snap went the scissors, and 
Dorothy exclaimed, “Oh! mamma. What shall 
we do now? I’ve broken the scissors and now 
this cannot be finished tonight ! I did so want to 
get through !” 

“Why, how did you break them, child?” Mrs. 
Lorrimer asked. 

“I can’t tell,” Dorothy replied. “I was only 
cutting this cloth. I don’t see why they broke 
so easily.” 

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Lorrimer said; 
“they were almost worn out, anyway.” 


TH£ E ARI. OF ROSSVIIvFF HAI.lv 1 77 

“But, mamma, it matters about this work and I 
mean to run down to the village and get some 
new ones. I can get there and back home again 
before night.” 

“Don’t you think Essie had better go along 
with you? Are you not afraid?” Mrs. Lorrimer 
asked. “It is so late for you to go alone.” 

“Why, I am not the least bit afraid,” she re- 
plied, “ and there is no need for Essie to go, for 
she can have this basting done by the time I get 
back.” 

“Well, hurry then, Dorothy,” said Mrs. Lorrimer, 
“for I am almost afraid for you to go alone.” 

“I will,” she replied. “I shan’t be gone but a 
very few minutes,” and taking up her hat she 
started for the village. 

She soon purchased the scissors, and thought as 
she was so near she might as well go to the post- 
office. She did so and received a letter from 
Rupert and one for Mrs. Lorrimer from Kenton. 
She placed these, together with the scissors, in 
her pocket, and hurried on in the direction of 
home. As she walked on she realized that it was 
almost night and she had stayed longer than she 
had intended. But she thought by walking 
rapidly she could reach home before dark, and she 
hurried on, all unconscious of a pair of black, 
demon eyes that had seen her. 

Ben Thomas was standing by the roadside be- 
hind a large tree, which hid him from her view. 

“Phew,” he said to himself, “I call this luck. 
Here she comes, and alone, too !” 


12 


i7» 


the: e;art ot rossviute: haia< 


On she came all unconscious, and as she 
passed the tree behind which he was hiding, he 
stepped out, and throwing his arm about her, he 
placed his hand over her mouth before she had 
time to scream. With the other hand he placed a 
handkerchief saturated with chloroform over her 
nose and mouth, and, lifting her in his arms, he 
ran with her to the wood and gave that peculiar 
whistle which he had given the evening before. 
Again the carriage dashed up at break-neck 
speed. 

“I’ve got her this time, Joe,” he said. “Open 
the door, quick.” 

The man quickly obeyed, and, putting Dorothy 
in, Ben Thomas jumped in beside her, and told the 
man to drive straight to the city and not to be 
long about it. 

On they went at a furious speed until they had 
gone about half the distance to the city, when 
they came to a steep hill. On they went, never 
checking, and just as they had almost reached the 
bottom, one of the horses stumbled and fell head- 
long, taking the other horse with him, throwing 
the driver from his seat into a deep ravine that 
was on one side of the road, and utterly smashing 
one of the carriage wheels. 

This sudden jolt served to rouse Dorothy, who 
sat up, and, after staring vainly around in the 
darkness, asked “Where am I? Who are you?” 

“I’m one that loves you very much,” he said, 
trying to put his arm around her. Dorothy 
screamed and drew back. 


THD DARI, OD ROSSVIDDD HAW, 


179 


“You won’t let me be loving with you, eh! 
Well, I’m not surprised. But you’ll get over all 
that in a few days.” 

“Who are you?” Dorothy asked again. 

“And so you want to know me, do you?” he 
said. “My name is Ben Thomas, but perhaps you 
would like to see me,” and lighting a match he 
held it over his head and said, “Look, Beauty! 
Don’t you think I’m handsome?” 

Dorothy did look, and, quickly recognizing him 
as the young man that had frightened Essie and 
her the day they went to the city, she murmured 
“God help me !” and fell forward in a dead faint. 

Reaching under the seat, he secured a lantern 
and after lighting it he called, “What did you stop 
for, Joe? Go on! What do you mean by this?” 

But no answer came from Joe. 

Lifting Dorothy back on the carriage seat and 
taking a bottle of brandy from his pocket, he 
placed the bottle to her lips and forced some of 
the liquor down her throat. Then he sprang out 
of the carriage to see what had happened, mut- 
tering curses upon the driver for stopping. He 
soon learned the cause of the difficulty. He called 
Joe but received no answer, and, seizing the lan- 
tern, he began to look for him, stumbling about in 
the darkness. He found him, and, after speaking 
to him and receiving no answer he pulled him 
rudely over on his face and discovered that his 
head had been smashed against a stone and he 
was dead. 

“Now I call this confounded luck,” he mut- 


i8o 


THD DARI, OD ROSSVIDDD HAU, 


tered. “But I can’t stop to carry him with me, 
for the carriage wheel is smashed.” 

Turning he left the dead man there as if he had 
been a dead dog, and going to the horses, he be- 
gan to cut them loose. Discovering that one 
horse had a broken leg, he pulled a pistol from his 
pocket and shot the animal dead. He then pro- 
ceeded to cut the other horse loose and, finding 
that he was uninjured, he walked up to the car- 
riage to see if Dorothy had recovered. He found 
the carriage empty. A volley of oaths fell from 
his lips and, tying the horse to the carriage he 
started back over the road to look for the girl, 
cursing his luck with every breath. He went 
probably half a mile and was on the point of 
turning about and going back, when he saw a 
dark object crouched on the side of the road. He 
went up and finding it was Dorothy, he seized her 
roughly by the arm and said, “So you thought to 
get away from me, did you? I’ll have you guarded 
closer if that’s your game !” 

He again placed the chloroform to her nose 
and mouth, and, lifting her in his arms, he re- 
traced his steps to the broken carriage. 

When he reached the carriage he hardly knew 
how to act. He knew it would never do for them 
to stay there till morning, and he was afraid if he 
left Dorothy again she would be gone when he 
returned. There was only one thing he could do. 
So he got on the horse, placing Dorothy up in front 
of him, and rode away as fast as he could. 

He rode on in this way till he came to a farm 


THE eare oe rossvieee hale 181 

house about a mile up the road, where he inquired 
if they did not have some kind of a conveyance 
which they could let him have, telling the man 
that he and his wife lived in the city and they had 
been to see her mother who was ill, and were com- 
pelled to get back to the city that night; that 
when the carriage was wrecked, his wife had 
fainted and had not yet recovered. The man in- 
sisted that he should bring Dorothy in the house 
and try to revive her, but Thomas told him no. 
She would be all right in a few minutes and that if 
he would let him have a conveyance of some kind 
he would bring it back the following day and pay 
the money into his hand right there — just any 
amount he might name. 

The man told him he did not have any kind of 
conveyance except a spring wagon, but he was 
welcome to this and that he would not charge 
him anything for that if he would bring it back in 
good order. Thomas promised to do so and asked 
the man to hitch the horse as he didn’t like to lay 
his wife on the ground and it would take up too 
much time to carry her in the house. The man 
did this willingly and soon had the horse to the 
wagon. Thomas sprang in and placing Dorothy 
on the seat beside him he supported her with one 
arm while he drove with the other. He drove 
rapidly as he did not know but what the girl’s 
friends had missed her and were in pursuit. 

The farmer thought there was something very 
strange about the couple, strange that she had 
fainted, and that he did not want to take her in 


1 82 THE EART OE ROSSVIEEE HATE 

the house to try to revive her. He asked his wife 
if she supposed he had done anything wrong in 
letting the man have the wagon. She replied she 
did not suppose he had, but there was certainly 
something very strange about them. 


CHAPTER XX 


Ben Thomas reached the city with Dorothy just 
as he heard a clock somewhere strike the hour of 
midnight. 

“This is a pretty good drive after all,” he mut- 
tered to himself. “After all my bad luck Pm here, 
and it’s just twelve o’ clock.” 

Each time that Dorothy had showed signs of 
waking, Thomas had given her a little more chloro- 
form, and when he reached the old house where 
Mrs. Miller lived he took Dorothy in his arms and 
carried her to the door. He had a hard time rous- 
ing Mrs. Miller, as she was sleeping off the effects 
of a drunken day. At last he succeeded in rousing 
her, and, after making him tell his name and what 
he wanted and getting a good cursing for being so 
particular, she opened the door. 

“Is everything ready ?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she said, “and have you got the gal ?” 

“You bet Pve got her,” he replied. “Did you 
ever know me to fail? Come along with the light 
and open the doors for me.” 

The old woman obeyed, and, after carrying Dor- 
othy up three flights of steps, he stood in a richly- 
furnished room, very different from the other part 
of the old house. He laid Dorothy on a sofa and 
told the old woman to put her to bed and come out 
and leave her alone to sleep off the effects of the 
chloroform. He then left the house, after telling 


184 


TH£ E)ARIy OF ROSSVIUvF HAU, 


Mrs. Miller to be sure to watch the girl so closely 
that she would have no possible chance of escape. 

‘Til do that,” she said, “have no fear about that. 
The worthless little wretch — how I hate her.” 

When Dorothy awoke next morning at first she 
could not remember what had happened. Then 
slowly she remembered, and, rising from the bed 
where Mrs. Miller had placed her, she dressed 
herself quickly and began to look about to see if 
there was any means of escape. She discovered 
that she was in the fourth story and that all the 
windows had iron bars across them. She then 
examined the door. It was securely locked. She 
knew she could not escape from this room so she 
determined to be as quiet as she could. 

She seated herself in an easy chair and tried to 
think how she should escape, and how she should 
defend herself. And what would Mrs. Lorrimer 
and Essie think? If she had only listened to Mrs. 
Lorrimer and taken Essie with her, if she could 
not have helped her out, they would at least have 
known that she had been taken by force and had 
not left them willingly. Then it occurred to her 
that she had the two letters in her pocket from 
Rupert and Kenton. She took them slowly from 
her pocket, and there with the letters were the 
scissors she had purchased the day before. 

“Thank God,” she said. “I knew He would 
help me ! I can defend myself now. I had entirely 
forgotten these scissors ! It is a miracle that the 
wretch did not take them from me.” 

She now heard footsteps upon the stairs, and 


the: e;art ot rossviixe: halt 185 

quickly returning the scissors and letters to her 
pocket she leaned back in her chair. She sup- 
posed it was Ben Thomas and she was surprised 
to see her old enemy, Mrs. Miller, enter the room. 
Dorothy turned as pale as death, for she knew if 
she was placed in the cruel old woman's hands, her 
chance of escape would be utterly cut off. 

“Yes, you may turn pale, you worthless 
little vagabond! I've got you now, you run- 
away; I've got you back and I'll see that you 
don't leave this house again. You'll be glad to 
stay with me yet," said the old woman. “I've kept 
lots of such as you here for Ben Thomas and I 
can keep you." 

“Have you no heart, Mrs. Miller," Dorothy 
asked, “to keep a poor girl here — the victim of a 
vile wretch?" 

“Yes," said Mrs. Miller, “you call him vile, but 
what are you? You left me alone to starve." 

“Well, Mrs. Miller, how could you blame me 
for leaving you when I could find a better home ? 
The people I have been living with have been as 
kind to me as I could wish any one to be." 

“Yes, you say they are kind, as much as to say 
I was not, after I fed and clothed you as long as I 
did! That's the thanks I'm to get for it. You 
unthankful little wretch ! I despise you. I should 
like to strangle you like a viper! I hate the very 
sight of you." 

“Mrs. Miller, let me go — let me go !" 

“Hear her," the old woman said scornfully. “I 
see them good people, as you are fool enough to 


1 86 


the Eare oe rossvieee haee 


call them, have learned you to be proud. No, I 
shan’t let you go. I know what your little game 
is. You think you’ll persuade me to let you go. 
But I’ll never do it. I get money for keeping you 
here. You have no money to give me to let you 
go, and even if you offered me ever so much Ben 
Thomas will double the amount.” 

“True, I have no money to offer you,” Dorothy 
replied, meekly, “but if you will only let me go, 
I will pray God to bless you, is all I can do.” 

“God and I parted company years ago. I don’t 
want any of His blessings ! I want gold — gin will 
give me more satisfaction than all your God’s 
blessings !” 

“Heaven help you, Mrs. Miller!” said Dorothy. 
“I did not know you were such a heartless old 
woman.” 

Dorothy knew there was no further use in try- 
ing to persuade Mrs. Miller to let her go, so she 
said, “I will not ask you to help me any more. I 
see your heart is as hard as stone. But this same 
God of whom you talk so slightly will help me to 
escape from you and that villain.” 

“All right,” said Mrs. Miller, tauntingly, “you 
trust in your God and see if He will unlock this 
door, and invite you to walk out.” 

“I don’t care to have any further words with 
you, Mrs. Miller,” Dorothy replied. “Please leave 
the room. I detest such as you, Mrs. Miller. You 
think I am a young girl and have nothing to de- 
fend myself with, but God has not forsaken me 
yet and He will help me take my own part.” 


THE) SARI, OS ROSSVIIJvS hats 187 

“You impudent little viper/’ the old woman al- 
most screamed, “to say such things to me here in 
my own house ! I’ve a mind to choke your tongue 
out and trample you under my feet!”' 

“Perhaps you had better try that,” Dorothy 
said, “perhaps it would not be so easily done as 
you think. Again I say I can defend myself.” 

“You don’t mean to say you are armed, do you?” 

“I mean to say I can take my own part,” Dor- 
othy replied, “and if Ben Thomas interferes with 
me, I swear I shall do my best to kill him. I do 
not want to be a murderer, but before I will be rob- 
bed of my virtue I will kill him, so help me 
Heaven !” 

“Well,” said the old woman, “if you are armed 
I think I’ll see if I can’t persuade you to give up 
your weapon. Ben Thomas is not a man to be 
fooled with by such weak things as you. He 
would shoot you just as quick as he would a 
snake.” 

“I know I am nothing but a weak girl,” Dor- 
othy replied, “but I will fight till I fall dead where 
I stand.” 

“I don’t think you are so game as all that. I 
think I’ll try you. I’m just aching to get my 
hands on you, and I’m going to take that weapon 
from you, whatever it may be.” And before Dor- 
othy was aware of the old woman’s intentions, 
Mrs. Miller sprang toward her as quick as a cat. 
Snatching at Dorothy’s hand she cried, “I’ll see if 
you are all that you say you are.” But wrenching 
her arm loose from the old woman’s grasp, Dor-. 


1 88 


the: E:ARIv OR ROSSVIIvIvE: HAUv 


othy sprang to one side, and then, perceiving that 
the key had been left in the lock, she snatched it 
out and quickly sprang through the door, which 
she locked on the outside, leaving Mrs. Miller on 
the inside, muttering curses on Dorothy's head 
and on herself for being so careless. 

Dorothy's heart gave a great bound. 

“Thank God for all His mercy!" she murmured 
as she bounded down the stairs, two steps at a 
time. She had just started on the second flight 
when she lost her footing and fell headlong to the 
bottom of the stairs. She lay there a minute or 
two before she could move, then Mrs. Miller's 
curses and screams of help, murder, fire and every 
other thing she could think of roused her and 
rising she started again. 

On she went, thanking God for His mercy at 
every bound until she reached the street door, and 
was just going out this when she ran straight into 
the arms of Ben Thomas. When Dorothy saw 
who it was she fell to the floor. 

Thomas did not know what had happened. 
Mrs. Miller's cries came from above as though 
some one was murdering her. So, lifting Dorothy 
in his arms, he again carried her up the steps to 
the fourth story. When he reached there he dis- 
covered that the door was locked. He demanded 
of Mrs. Miller to open the door. 

“I can't," she said, almost breathless from so 
much screaming. “The little wretch has gone and 
locked me in." 

“She is not gone," he replied, “but came near 


Th£ SARI, OS ROSSVIUvS hau, 189 

being gone if I had not come just in the nick of 
time. Here’s the key on the floor, where she 
threw it in her haste to get away,” and picking it 
up, he unlocked the door, laid Dorothy on the 
sofa then turned to Mrs. Miller and demanded of 
her an explanation. 

“You are a good person to put any trust in! I 
thought you were as anxious to keep the girl here 
as I, and if I had just been a minute later, she 
would have escaped. You old fool, I ought to 
shoot you for being so careless.” 

“No, Ben,” she replied, “wait till I tell you how 
it happened. I could not help it. The little wild 
cat jumped on me and before I could help it or 
saw what she was about she had the key out of my 
pocket and was out the door in just a second. 
That’s how it was. She’s the gamest one you’ve 
ever brought here.” 

“Well, from this on, Mrs. Miller,” he said, 
“don’t come in the room when you bring her food. 
Just come to the door and set it down then lock 
the door at once. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, sir,” she replied, meekly, “I’ll do that, for 
the little wretch come near choking the life out of 
me. She is a regular demon.” 

“Bring me some water, Mrs. Miller, and then 
leave the room,” he said. 

She obeyed and when she had gone he sprinkled 
some of the water on Dorothy’s face and then sat 
down to wait until her fainting spell was over. In 
a short time Dorothy opened her eyes, and, per- 
ceiving Ben Thomas sitting over on the other side 


190 


THE) EjARI, OT ROSSVITIvi: HAUv 


of the room, she arose and drawing herself up to 
her full height, she said, “What do you mean by 
coming in this room without my permission? 
Leave this room at once.” 

“By Jove! pet/’ he replied, “that’s a very un- 
pleasant greeting for one that loves you as much 
as I do. Really it is. But as the room belongs 
to me, I guess I have a right to stay here. So 
come, love, and sit down by me, won’t you?” he 
said, fixing his wicked black eyes on her face. 

Dorothy gave him only a look of scorn. 

“Say, love,” he continued, “don’t look at me 
like that — really I can’t bear it ! Heavens, you are 
more beautiful than I thought. It makes me love 
you more than ever to see you look like that. But 
do come and sit down by me. I love you, indeed 
I do.” 

“Leave this room at once !” said Dorothy, point- 
ing to the door. 

“Well, I’m sorry, pet, very sorry,” he continued, 
“but really I can’t oblige you this time. I like to 
look at you too well to leave the room, and 
wouldn’t I love to kiss you? Really I think I 
will,” and he advanced toward her. 

“Stand back, you impudent cur,” she said 
slowly. 

“Really, I can’t stand back,” he said. “Those 
rosy cheeks and red lips look so tempting. I 
would stand back, love, if I could, but I can not. 
And say, pet, won’t you kiss me? Please do — 
just once.” 


THE EARE OE ROSSVIEEE HAEE 191 

“Kiss you? I would rather kiss the evil one 
himself/’ 

“Well, if you won’t kiss me willingly I guess I’ll 
just have to take one any way,” and again he ad- 
vanced toward her. 

“Stand back, I tell you,” repeated Dorothy. 

“Well, by Jove! you’ve got pluck! Say, what 
would you take to kiss me? I’ll give you twenty 
pounds in gold — by Jove! I will, if you’ll kiss me 
one time. Now I consider that a pretty high price 
for so small a thing as one little kiss.” 

“I would not let you touch my lips for all the 
gold in the world,” she replied, “you base, worth- 
less scoundrel.” 

“Oh,” he said, “please don’t call me hard names. 
It isn’t polite, you know. But if you can not be 
persuaded, I’ll just take the kiss anyway.” 

Dorothy’s hand quietly sought her pocket. 
Thomas did not notice this movement and, ad- 
vancing another step or two, he put out his hand 
as if to take hold of her. Quick as a flash there 
was a glitter of steel and the scoundrel staggered 
and fell to the floor. 

Mrs. Miller, who had been listening at the key- 
hole, heard him fall and rushed into the room. 
She shut the door, locked it and took the key from 
the door and sprang toward Dorothy. 

“Stand back, Mrs. Miller,” said Dorothy in a 
warning voice. “I do not wish to injure you, but 
I shall be compelled to do so if you do not leave 
me alone. And now,” she said, pointing toward 


192 


the: £ARH o r rossvitte: hau. 


the wretch on the floor, “take that man out of this 
room.” 

“Yes,” cried Mrs. Miller, “you have near killed 
him,” and half-carrying, half-dragging him to the 
door she pulled him outside. Then, relocking the 
door, with a great effort she managed to get him 
down stairs and on a bed. Then she hurried for a 
doctor. 


CHAPTER XXI 


Mrs. Lorrimer and Essie were greatly alarmed 
when dark came and Dorothy did not return. 

“I can not see what is keeping the child so 
Ion g,” Mrs. Lorrimer said. 

“It may be that she has stopped at Mrs. Bish- 
op’s/’ Essie replied, “but then it is hardly prob- 
able that she would for she was so determined to 
finish this work tonight.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Lorrimer, “I can’t see what 
else has delayed her. I am becoming quite un- 
easy about the child. Suppose we walk down to 
Mrs. Bishop’s and see if she is there.” 

“All right,” Essie replied, “for I am becoming 
alarmed. She never did this way before.” 

But when they reached Mrs. Bishop’s no Dor- 
othy was there, nor had she been there that day. 
They were alarmed in good earnest now. Mr. 
Bishop said he would walk down to the village and 
see if he could find her. But he returned in a 
short time, with two or three other men who had 
joined in the search, and said that he could find no 
trace of her. Only he said they had seen where 
it looked as if there had been a struggle; there 
were the prints of a small shoe and then those 
that were larger, that looked like a man’s foot- 
step. 

Mrs. Lorrimer and Essie were almost distracted 
when they heard this. 

13 


194 TH£ SARI, ROSSVIL,I,S HAU, 

“I fear some one has murdered the child,” Mrs. 
Lorrimer said. 

“No,” said Essie, “if she had been murdered, 
her body would have been found. My fears are 
that some one has carried her away.” 

But Mrs. Lorrimer could be made to believe 
nothing else but what she had been murdered. 

Men, boys, women and children searched with 
lanterns all that night; the whole neighborhood 
was aroused. But when the morning came Dor- 
othy was still missing. They searched all the next 
day and the next; the river was dragged; every 
place searched that could be thought of, but no 
Dorothy was found. Mrs. Lorrimer sent a tele- 
gram to Kenton to come home at once, and help 
search for the missing girl. He came and Rupert 
accompanied him. 

They arrived two days after Dorothy’s disap- 
pearance; they searched the surrounding country 
for a week without any better success than the 
others had. At last the idea came to Kenton that 
probably Mrs. Miller had something to do with 
this and he told Rupert that he would go to the 

town of S , find Mrs. Miller, and if she knew 

anything concerning Dorothy, force her to tell it. 
Rupert said he would go with him. 

He went to the house where Dorothy had lived. 
Mrs. Miller still lived there. 

This was better luck than he expected. He 
went into the house and Mrs. Miller recognized 
him at once as the boy that helped Dorothy to get 


THE) SARIv OT ROSSVIIvIvE: HAIvT 


195 


away from her. She at once commenced to rail 
at Kenton for helping Dorothy to escape. 

He waited until she was through and then said, 
“Mrs. Miller, Dorothy disappeared a few days ago 
and I would be very glad if you could give me any 
information regarding her.” 

The old woman turned pale as the thought 
struck her that it was probable he had traced Dor- 
othy to her house, but she determined if she had 
to fight her own battle to the last she would do 
so, and she said as though it was the first time she 
knew of it, “Disappeared, the little wretch! She 
won’t stay at a good home when she has one. 
Look the way she told lies about me and left me, 
and now she’s left you. Like as not she’s run 
away with some worthless vagabond and married. 
She’s an ungrateful little imp.” 

“No,” Kenton replied, looking her straight in 
the eye. “No, she has been stolen and I believe 
you’ve had a hand in the stealing.” 

The old woman looked as if she was going to 
faint for she thought now that surely he had 
traced the girl there. 

“Me? You insulting thing to accuse a poor old 
woman like me of stealing that gal! Why, how 
do you think I could get away out to Rossville 
Station to steal a gal?” 

“If you had nothing to do with it, how came 
you to know she lived at Rossville?” Kenton 
asked. 

“Well, a friend of mine told me he saw her out 


ig 6 THD Sari, os rossvisIvS ha u, 

there/’ she said, quickly, or rather she managed 
to stammer out. 

“And may I ask who that friend was?” said 
Kenton. 

“You can ask if you’re a mind to,” she said. 
“But I’ll not tell you for it’s none of your business. 
What is it to you, who my friends are?” 

“Why it isn’t anything,” Kenton replied. “I 
only asked through curiosity.” 

“Well, I don’t like folks to poke their noses in my 
business just through curiosity. If you’ve no rea- 
sons for asking questions don’t ask them.” 

“Pray excuse me,” Kenton said politely. “I as- 
sure you I meant no offence whatever. As you 
can not tell me anything concerning Dorothy I 
suppose I may as well be going.” 

“There was no need to come here at first,” the 
old woman said, spitefully. “You ought to know 
better than to come poking your nose into an old 
woman’s business — an old woman who you had 
injured enough already by stealing her gal.” 

“Well, I beg your pardon,” he said, “but I 
thought perhaps you knew something concerning 
her,” and raising his hat, he walked away. 

He went at once to Rupert and told him how 
the old woman looked when he began to talk 
about Dorothy and that he was sure she knew 
something concerning Dorothy’s disappearance 
and perhaps that friend she spoke of helped her in 
getting Dorothy back. 

“I’ll tell you what you do, Kenton,” Rupert said, 
after a moment’s thought, “suppose we have the 


THE) E ART OF ROSSVITIvE: halt 197 

house searched. Just as likely as not Dorothy is 
there and was there when you were.” 

“Agreed,” said Kenton, “we’ll have the house 
searched to-morrow. That’s the very idea, Ru- 
pert.” 

The following day, Rupert and Kenton, accom- 
panied by two policemen, went to search the 
house. But when they had searched it, no Dor- 
othy was to be found. They discovered the richly 
furnished room and inquired of Mrs. Miller the 
reason why it was so different from the rest of 
the house. She replied that a rich gentleman 
stayed up there sometimes. 

“But if he is so wealthy, why does he stay in 
such a place as this?” Rupert asked. 

“I don’t know,” the old woman replied, snap- 
pishly, “I never was so inquisitive as to ask him.” 

While they were searching one of the old rooms 
on the fourth floor one of the policemen came 
upon a piece of paper folded up as small as pos- 
sible and stuck behind a loose board. Thinking 
this might be some clue he took the paper from 
its hiding place and unfolded it. On it was writ- 
ten, “To my dear little Dorothy, whom I leave in 
care of Mrs. Miller, until she can find my brother, 
Joseph West. I leave this, Dorothy, as a farewell 
message from your dying mother. I leave my 
wedding ring and this message with Mrs. Miller 
to give to you on your tenth birthday, should she 
not be able to find my brother. When last heard 
of, he was in London; tell him, Dorothy, to for- 
give his little sister for loving the man whom he 


198 TH£ sari, OS ROSSVISSS HASS 

hated so much, and whose only fault was loving 
me too well. Tell him we lived very happily to- 
gether, if we were poor, until God took my dear 
one from me and left me alone, penniless and al- 
most helpless with a little daughter to support. 
And now I am dying and must leave my darling 
alone. But God grant that she may fall into kind 
hands! I know that Joseph will be kind to Dor- 
othy for his little sister’s sake. Keep my wedding 
ring, Dorothy. It is all I had to remind me of my 
husband and will be all you will have to remind 
you of your poor dear father and your heart- 
broken mother, Anna Donald.” 

“Well,” said the policeman, “here’s a little piece 
of paper that concerns Miss Donald,” as he 
handed it to Kenton. “Keep that and give it to 
her when you find her — if you ever do, for it may 
prove valuable to her.” 

Kenton took the paper and after reading it said, 
“I thought there was a secret at the bottom of all 
this. I’m sure the old woman never gave Dorothy 
this or the ring either. Suppose we make the old 
hag tell what she did with the ring,” said Kenton, 
turning to the policeman. “I’ll wager she sold it.” 

“All right,” said the policeman, “I suppose she 
thought no one would ever find this. It is lucky 
for Miss Donald that it was found for probably it 
will help her to find her uncle.” 

They again entered the room where Mrs. Miller 
was and the policeman said, “Mrs. Miller, may I 
ask what you did with the ring and letter that 


THE) EjARIy OF ROSSVII,I,E HAI.lv 


199 


Anna Donald gave you to give to her child on her 
tenth birthday ?” 

“Anna Donald left no ring with me,” she said, 
“or letter either/’ making a vain attempt to look 
straight in the officer’s face. 

“Now Mrs. Miller, don’t lie,” the policeman 
replied sternly, “I happen to know better than 
that. Let me have that paper,” he said, address- 
ing Kenton. 

He handed him the paper and the officer read 
it aloud, then turned to Mrs. Miller. “Now tell 
us why you never did what this letter requests.” 

“Let me see that paper,” the old woman said, 
without appearing to notice his question. 

“No,” said the officer, “I read all that was on 
the paper and I know what you want. What did 
you do with that ring? Why did you not give it 
to Miss Donald?” 

“I told you I done nothing with it,” and her 
eyes looked daggers at the man. “She didn’t give 
me a ring.” 

“Now, Mrs. Miller,” the man continued, “I’ve 
heard enough of this. I know what you say is 
false and if you do not tell me what you did with 
that ring I’ll arrest you and have you put in prison 
for making away with other people’s property. 
Don’t deny it any more. If you do not tell me 
where that ring is, I’ll arrest you and see if staying 
in prison won’t help you to tell.” 

“I don’t know where it is then, if I must tell 
you,” she said. 

“Well, if you do not know where it is now, you 


200 


THE) EARL, 0T ROSSVITTE HATE 


at least know what you did with it. Tell us — 
we’ve no time to waste.” 

“Well, if you must know, I pawned it.” 

“Well, what did you get for it?” 

“I got money for it.” 

“And what did you do with the money?” 

“I spent it of course. What do you think I 
wanted of it?” 

“And, Mrs. Miller,” the man continued, “I should 
like very much to know what you spent it for ?” 

“That’s none of your business,” she replied, 
and I’d thank you not to ask so many questions 
when it don’t concern you.” 

“If you don’t tell me this instant I’ll see if you 
can’t be forced to tell,” he said, taking a pair of 
handcuffs from his pocket. 

“Oh, put them things away,” she shrieked, “I’ll 
tell you. I bought gin with the money.” 

The policeman returned the steel bracelets to 
his pocket. 

“I thought that all along. Now if you don’t get 
up enough money to pay Miss Donald for that 
ring, I’ll have your old neck stretched.” 

“Oh, I’m not pinched for money now like I was 
then. I can get all the money I want now, just all 
I’ve got to do is to ask for it, no matter how 
much and I can get it. And I’ll pay the gal for 
her ring. Yes, I’ll pay her double,” she repeated 
as though she had more than one meaning to her 
words. 

“Mr. Anderson,” said Rupert in a low voice, 
stepping up to the policeman, and laying his hand 


THE) DARIy OF R0SSVlIyIyl£ HAIyly 


201 


on his shoulder, “you can bet that this very old 
woman knows where Dorothy Donald is and I 
suggest that you force her to telL ,, 

“That’s what I’m going to do,” he replied in 
a low tone, “I’m going to let her tell it herself. 
She’ll tell it before she thinks.” And turning to 
Mrs. Miller he continued, “But "you have not told 
me how you get your money so easy.” 

“Why, Thomas gives it to me,” she replied, 
tossing her head. 

“And who is this Thomas?” 

“He’s the kind gentleman that lives up stairs 
in that fine room.” 

“May I ask why he is not in to-day?” 

“He’s gone from the city.” 

“Where did he go?” 

“I think he said he was going to London.” 

“How long has he been gone?” the officer 
asked carelessly. 

“He left last night,” she replied. 

“And when is he coming back?” 

“I don’t know,” she said. 

“Mrs. Miller, is Thomas a married man?” 

“No.” 

“Has he a mother or sister or any other wo- 
man relative who comes and stays with him some- 
times?” 

“No — not that I know of.” 

“Well, does he ever have any lady visitors?” 

“No.” 

“Well, can you tell me how there came to be a 
lady’s slipper in his room?” 


202 


THE) E)ART OT ROSSVITTE) HATH, 


“Likely as not it's mine. Mr. Thomas’s little 
dog carries things around in his mouth and I 
guess he carried my slipper up to Mr. Thomas’s 
room.” 

“Excuse me, but do you think you could get 
your foot in a shoe twice the size of that?” 

“I don’t know,” she said, “I haven’t seen the 
shoe.” 

“Mr. Rose,” said Anderson, turning to the 
other policeman, “go bring the slipper. I should 
like to see Mrs. Miller put it on.” Then turning to 
Mrs. Miller, he continued, “If the dog carried the 
slipper to Mr. Thomas’s room can you tell me if 
the dog placed it on the dressing table ?” 

“No, I don’t guess he did, but I reckon Mr. 
Thomas did.” 

“It looks like the gentleman would have 
brought the slipper down to your room.” 

“I guess he thought if I wanted it I was able 
to come after it. I’ve got enough of your ques- 
tions now, and I’d thank you to leave me alone.” 

“Excuse me, Mrs. Miller, but I don’t think I 
shall leave the house yet, and besides, I’m not 
through with all my questions.” 

The other man now returned with the slipper 
and Mr. Anderson turned to Mrs. Miller. 

“You would oblige me greatly by trying this 
slipper on.” 

“That’s not my slipper,” she said. “Why, I can’t 
begin to get my foot in that. Why, that’s a child’s. 
Likely as not Mr. Thomas found it and just 
brought it on to his room.” 


THE) DARI, OF ROSSVIDDD HADD 


203 


“No, this is no child's slipper. It is a number 
three, ladies' slipper, but if you can not tell me 
anything concerning the slipper, you can at least 
tell me why Mr. Thomas gives you money when- 
ever you ask him." 

“Because I work and earn it," she replied. 

“What kind of work do you do?" 

“That's none of your business and I'll not an- 
swer another of your questions. You may as well 
go on about your business — if you've got any, and 
leave me to myself." 

“Mrs. Miller, I have told you what I would do 
if you did not answer all my questions, and I shall 
keep my word." 

“Arrest me then," she said, “but I'll not tell 
you." 

“Well," he continued, “as I care more about 
the information you can give me than to arrest 
you, I'll see if I can't persuade you to tell me," 
and taking a revolver from his pocket he leveled 
it at her. “Now, Mrs. Miller, will you answer my 
questions?" 

“Oh, ye dirty scoundrels, to come here four at a 
time and take the advantage of a poor old woman. 
Are you going to stand there gaping and let the 
man shoot me?" she cried to the three other men. 

“Answer my questions and I won't shoot, and 
remember I don't want any lies." 

“Ask your questions, then," she said sullenly. 
“I don't want to have my brains blowed out." 

“Well, promise that you won't tell any lies," 
said the policeman. 


204 


the: eari, ot rossvhj,e HATT 


“I’ve promised/’ she said, “but take that thing 
out of my face. I can’t talk when I’m looking for 
my head to be blowed off at any minute.” 

He lowered the revolver but still kept it in his 
hand. “Tell me what kind of work you’ve been 
doing for Mr. Thomas.” 

“I washed for him.” 

“I know he would not give you all the money 
you asked for just for washing,” the policeman re- 
plied. “If you do not tell what he pays you such 
a high price for, I’ll have to use this persuader.” 

“Well, if I’ve got to tell, I kept boarders for 
him.” 

“Were they lady or gentlemen boarders?” 

“They wasn’t either.” 

“Well, if they were neither ladies or gentlemen, 
what were they?” 

“They was gals,” she said snappishly. “Now 
you’ve got it, I hope your easy.” 

“How many girls have you kept here for him?” 

“Lor’, I don’t know,” she said, “lots of ’em.” 

“Did they not ask you to let them go?” 

“Yes,” she admitted, “but what did I care for 
their asking? I’m an old woman. I have to get 
money some way and I got money for keeping 
them.” 

“Has Miss Donald been a prisoner in this house 
for the last week?” 

“Oh ! mercy,” cried the old woman, as she looked 
wildly about, “Mr. Thomas will kill me if I tell so 
much.” 


THE EARE OE ROSSVIIvIvE HAIX 205 

“And I’ll kill you if you don’t. Has Miss Don- 
ald been a prisoner in this house, I say?” 

“Yes,” she said, slowly, “yes.” 

“O God, help her !” muttered Rupert. 

“Do you mean to say she was in this house yes- 
terday when I was here?” Kenton asked, wheel- 
ing upon her. 

“Yes,” said the old woman as she laughed 
harshly, “but she’s not here now.” 

“Where has he taken the girl?” the policeman 
asked. 

“I don’t know no more than you, only he said 
he was going to London. I guess he took her 
there.” 

“Well, it won’t do to stay here, if Dorothy is in 
London. Let us go there and find her,” Rupert said 
desperately. “Oh ! my dear little Dorothy !” 

“Yes, we may as well go,” said the policeman. 
“I’ll settle with this woman later.” 

Kenton and Rupert secured a detective and put 
him to* work on the case. Then they telegraphed 
Mrs. Lorrimer that they had gained valuable infor- 
mation and at once set out for London. 

But what could they do in such a city as London ? 
But do all they could, they could find no traces of 
Dorothy. She was as utterly lost to them as she 
was before they came to London. 

Rupert and Kenton were almost distracted. One 
day when they were talking of Dorothy, Rupert 
said, “Kenton, I have a great secret to tell you.” 

“I’m ready to hear it,” Kenton replied, “go on 
with it.” 


2 o6 


the: EARL O L ROSSVII.TE: HALT. 


“Kenton, I love Dorothy. I never would tell you 
before, but I tell you now because I think I should. 
I love her.” 

“Well, Rupert/’ Kenton replied, “I’m not sur- 
prised at all. Daphne has told me all along that you 
were in love with Dorothy. And if she had not told 
me, I could have guessed it myself. But, Rupert, we 
will find Dorothy, and she will not be disgraced, 
for I am sure she would fight to the last for her 
honor.” 

“I’ve no doubt of this, Kenton,” he replied sadly, 
“but what could a weak girl like Dorothy do in the 
hands of a villain.” 

“True,” said Kenton, “she is weak, but I cannot 
but believe she will come out winner. Dorothy is a 
girl who generally does what she undertakes and 
I’m sure she will come out all right in that respect, 
but we will have more trouble yet in finding her.” 

“I will find her, though I lose my life in the at- 
tempt,” Rupert replied. 

“And I will stand by you,” Kenton replied. “We 
will find Dorothy before we leave this city.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


Mrs. Miller, having found a doctor, soon returned 
with him to her house. He dressed Thomas’s 
wound, and said it was not serious, only a flesh 
wound, and the patient would be able to be up in 
a few days. Thomas stayed with Mrs. Miller so 
that she might dress the wound every day, and in 
a few days he was able to be up, but he had not 
entirely recovered. 

On the evening that Kenton came to Mrs. Mil- 
ler’s, Thomas was sitting by the window wonder- 
ing if he felt well enough to climb the steps to 
Dorothy’s room, when, looking out, he saw Kenton 
just coming up toward the house. 

“Mrs. Miller,” he said, “it will never do for me 
to be seen here. Is there no place where you could 
conceal me till after that man is gone? Hurry up 
— he is almost here.” 

“Yes,” she said. “You get in this closet, and 
I’ll shut the door, and he will never know you are 
there !” 

He went to the closet, opened the door and 
stepped in, and Mrs. Miller closed the door after 
him. Kenton, then came in and Thomas listened to 
the conversation carried on between him and Mrs. 
Miller. He was frightened and angry when he 
heard Kenton tell Mrs. Miller that he believed she 
had a hand in stealing Dorothy. He was afraid the 
old woman should so far forget herself, as to say 


208 


the: sari, OT ROSSVIIvI^E: HAIvT 


something that would lead Kenton to think that 
Dorothy was then in the house. 

It was with great feelings of relief that he heard 
Kenton leave the room. Mrs. Miller then opened 
the door and Thomas came out of the closet. 

“Mrs. Miller, it won't do for me to stay here, or 
to let the girl stay here another night. I am going 
to London tonight, and take her with me. I can't 
stay here and have the officers catch me just on ac- 
count of this little wound in my side. I'm afraid 
I will have trouble in getting the girl to leave, but 
I will take her dead or alive." 

He then went out and hired a carriage which 
was to be at the back entrance of the house by dark 
that night. Although it was near eight o'clock 
before he went up to Dorothy, he entered the room 
without knocking. Dorothy was sitting on the 
sofa and had pulled one slipper off, setting it on the 
dressing table, and was just about taking the other 
off when the man entered so unceremoniously. Be- 
fore she was aware of his intention Thomas had 
seized her and again placed a chloroformed hand- 
kerchief to her nose and mouth, and lifted her in 
his arms. He carried her to the carriage, lifting 
her in, then sprang in beside her, and told the man 
to drive on. 

It was about forty miles from the town of S , 

and consequently they did not reach London until 
the following morning at ten o'clock. The horses 
were almost exhausted with their long and hurried 
journey. Dorothy was beginning to revive, but 


THE DARI, OD ROSSVIIvDD HAU, 


209 


Thomas had his mind on something else, and did not 
notice this. She opened her eyes and saw that he 
was not looking at her, she closed them again 
quickly, as the thought came to her, that possibly 
she might escape, when he was thinking of it the 
least. 

The carriage stopped in front of a tall brick 
building and Thomas got out. Still Dorothy 
showed no sign of awaking. Thomas lifted her 
and started with her toward the house, when the 
driver called to him that he guessed he had better 
settle with him before he left. Thomas „ again 
placed Dorothy in the carriage, so as to get his 
hands free to get the money for the man. Doro- 
thy thought that now was her chance of escape if 
ever, and waiting until Thomas was counting out 
the money, she uttered a piercing scream, “Save 
me!” and jumped from the carriage. 

An old gentleman was just passing and Dorothy 
ran straight toward him crying at every breath, 
“Save me, oh, save me!” 

Ben Thomas started after Dorothy, throwing his 
purse down in his haste. The man in the carriage 
snatched this and drove away, but Thomas did not 
notice this, he was so intent upon overtaking Doro- 
thy. But when he saw that she would reach the 
old gentleman before he could reach her, he pulled 
a revolver from his pocket and fired. Dorothy fell 
to the pavement, and a policeman then came up and 
after a struggle with Thomas, he succeeded in get- 
ting a pair of handcuffs on the villain. 

14 


210 


THE) BARI, OT ROSSVITTE: HAIA, 


The old gentleman lifted Dorothy, and calling a 
passing cab he placed her in it, and getting in, he 
told the man to drive to No. — Beacon street, 
with all speed. When he reached there, he lifted 
Dorothy from the cab, and as luck would have it, 
a doctor was just passing. Calling him in, the old 
gentleman told him to do what he could for Doro- 
thy, telling him how it all happened. Then, 
looking at Dorothy, the old gentleman muttered, 
“I’ve seen this girl before. Why, she is the very 
picture of my little sister dead so many years ago.” 

The doctor examined Dorothy’s wound and told 
the old man she must have a skilled nurse or she 
would not recover, as the bullet had entered her 
shoulder, and she must have careful nursing. The 
old gentleman replied that she should have a nurse 
and everything else she needed, for he had more 
money than he knew how to make use of, and would 
as soon spend it for this poor girl as not, and a 
little rather, because she was so like his sister. So 
a competent nurse was procured to take care of 
Dorothy. 

When Dorothy saw the old gentleman standing 
over her, she recognized him as the old gentleman 
whom she and Kenton had seen in the waiting 
room, the evening she ran away from Mrs. Miller. 

“Oh! where is that man?” she cried. “Surely 
you will not let him get me !” 

The old man then told her what had happened. 
“Shall I ever recover?” she asked. “Tell me. I 
should not be afraid to die. I only wanted to tell 
you to tell my friends what has happened.” 


THE) E)ART O? ROSSVIIvTE: HATIv 


21 1 


“No, I don’t think you will die,” he said, “but 
you must not talk any more now.” 

Dorothy soon fell asleep, and when she awoke 
she saw a kind-faced woman dressed as a nurse 
bending over her. 

She was on the point of speaking, when the 
woman put her finger to< her lips, and said, “You 
must not talk any. I’ll answer your questions with- 
out your asking them, for I know exactly what you 
want to know. My name is Sister Mary, and if 
you do not talk any or exert yourself in any other 
way, you will soon be much better, so shut your 
eyes and go to sleep again.” 

Dorothy closed her eyes, but it was a good while 
before she went to sleep again. She was thinking 
of her home and her friends, and of the trouble she 
had gone through the past week. She was thankful 
though to be out of the hands of Ben Thomas, even 
in the condition she was then in, lying in the house 
of a stranger, seriously wounded. Though they 
tried to make her think she would be well in a few 
days, she knew that she could not. She wondered 
if Mrs. Lorrimer had sent for Kenton, and if he 
was looking for her, and she wondered too if 
Rupert was helping Kenton. While she was think- 
ing of them, she thought of Essie, and how lonely 
it would be for her without her sister Dorothy. 

The same evening that Dorothy lay thinking of 
them, Essie and Mrs. Lorrimer received the tele- 
gram from Kenton saying that they had received 


212 


the) e)art ot RossvinnE) hatt 


valuable information, and would set out for Lon- 
don that night. 

“Oh! God grant that they may find our little 
Dorothy,” Mrs. Lorrimer said, tearfully. “How 
I miss her sunny face and merry laughter. It 
almost seems that there had been a death in the 
family.” 

“Yes,” Essie replied, “it is very lonely without 
Dorothy. It seems that it is unlucky for me to tell 
any one I cannot do without them, for just as sure 
as I do they are taken from me. I told Claude I 
could not do without him, and I have discovered that 
I can when I am compelled to. And the other day 
I told Dorothy I could not do without her, and she 
is also taken from me. I shall never tell any one 
else that, no matter how strong I think it. It seems 
that almost every one I learn to love very dearly is 
taken from me.” 

“But let us hope that both of those dear ones will 
return,” Mrs. Lorrimer said, trying to< appear cheer- 
ful, “and perhaps, when the clouds all vanish, and 
Claude and Dorothy are given back to' us, we shall 
be happy once more. But we should be happy, dear, 
that we have each other,” she continued. “Suppose 
that you had been taken from me, when you were 
so ill. What a lonely time it would be for me 
now !” 

“I am thankful that my life was spared for the 
reason that you will not be so lonely now, and for 
another, that I can meet Claude again in this world.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 

Four days went slowly by before Dorothy was al- 
lowed to talk with any one for any length of time. 
But the nurse said one day that she was so much 
better and was so anxious to express her gratitude 
to the kind old gentleman, she would let her do so. 
The old man entered the room softly and came up 
to Dorothy’s bed. 

“Before I try to thank you,” said she, “I should 
like so much to* know the name of one who has been 
so kind to me.” 

“My name is Joseph West,” he replied. 

“Joseph West,” she repeated. “Well, Mr. West, 
I hardly know how to begin to thank you for sav- 
ing me from that miserable man. Had it not been 
for your kindness, God only knows what my fate 
would have been.” 

“I will tell you what I would appreciate more 
than thanks,” he replied. 

“What is that?” she asked. “It shall be as you 
say, if it lies in my power.” 

“Do not try to thank me then,” he said. “I do 
not want any thanks. It was a pleasure to me, to 
save an innocent girl. Do not try to thank me but 
talk to me of yourself.” 

Dorothy then told him the story of her life, as 
far back as she could remember, dwelling longest on 
the kindness of the Lorrimer family. She also told 
him that it was she and Kenton whom he had seen 
in the waiting room in the town of S , and 


214 


THE) E)ARIy OF ROSSVIUvF HAIJ, 


asked him if he did not remember them. He re- 
plied that he did, and that she must have thought 
him a queer old “sardine” to stare at her so. But 
the reason, he said, why he did this was because she 
was SO' like his sister. He then said. “You have 
not yet told me your name.” 

“My name is Dorothy Donald,” she replied. 

“Dorothy Donald,” he repeated. “Dorothy Don- 
ald?” as he gazed at her in astonishment. “Why, 
Donald was the name of the man my sister mar- 
ried,” and bending over he gazed at her curiously. 

“You do look so much like my little sister, Anna! 
Can it be that you are her child ? Did your mother 
leave you no letter or anything telling you who her 
parents were?” 

“No,” Dorothy replied, sadly, “if she did, I never 
saw, or heard of it. But if she had, I think it 
doubtful if Mrs. Miller would have kept it for me.” 

The old man would look at Dorothy closely for a 
few moments, then he would gaze out the window 
as if he were lost in thought. He sat so for some 
time. 

Suddenly he said : “Can you remember anything 
at all about your mother ? Do' you remember how 
she looked ? Are you anything like her ?” 

“I remember very little about her,” she said ; “but 
it seems that I have a recollection of a sweet face 
bending over me, a face with brown hair, and beau- 
tiful gray eyes. Mrs. Miller used to tell me that I 
was the very picture of my mother.” 

“I am almost sure you are Anna’s child,” he said. 


THE) DARI, OD ROSSVIDDD HAU, 


215 


“I have a picture of her when she was just eighteen. 
I’ll go get it and see if you can remember enough 
about your mother to see if that is like her.” 

He left the room and returned in a few moments 
with the picture of a beautiful girl with large gray 
eyes and brown curls and so like Dorothy that the 
picture might have been taken for Dorothy’s. 

“Does the picture look anything like your 
mother?” the old man asked. 

“I cannot remember very well how she looked, but 
from what I can remember, I should say it does.” 

“What was your mother’s name before mar- 
riage?” he asked. 

“I do not know,” Dorothy replied. “I was too 
small to ask any questions or for her to tell me any- 
thing about it. Mrs. Miller, when speaking of her, 
always called her Anna Donald.” 

“Was her name Anna?” he asked eagerly. 

“Yes, I think it was, or that is what Mrs. Miller 
always called her,” she repeated. 

“I am sure you are my sister’s child,” he said, 
“for her name was Anna, and our mother’s name 
was Dorothy. I am sure you were named for her. 
Oh ! Dorothy,” the old man said, “do you think you 
will ever love your poor old uncle ?” 

“I’m sure I shall,” she replied, “for I love you 
now. Can it be that you are really my uncle?” 

“I have not the least doubt but that I am,” he re- 
plied. “You are enough like my sister to prove this, 
even without all this other proof. Call me Uncle 


2l6 


the: E)ART OD ROSSVITTD HATIv 


Joseph/’ he said pleadingly. “Let me hear it from 
your lips.” 

“Well, dear Uncle Joseph,” she said as she put 
her arms about the old man’s neck, “I am so glad, so 
very glad I have found you, for I did not think I 
had a relative in the world.” 

“And I am glad I found you,” he said, “for now 
it will not seem so lonely, for of course you will stay 
with your poor old lonely Uncle Joseph.” 

“I should be glad to,” she replied sadly, “but I am 
afraid I cannot. It would not be doing Mrs. Lorri- 
mer justice to desert her now that I am large enough 
to be of some help to her. I think I shall go* back 
to her. Forgive me, Uncle Joseph, if this seems un- 
kind after all your trouble you have taken for me.” 

“No, no,” the old man said, very sadly; “I can- 
not blame you, for you are doing just the right 
thing, child. They have done more for you than 
I’ve ever done.” 

Oh! you are a dear, good old uncle,” she said, 
clasping his hand. “I can never repay you for your 
kindness to me. Oh!” she said, and she trembled 
violently, “how it frightens me to think of that man ! 
But, Uncle Joseph, I must write to Mrs. Lorrimer, 
or mamma, as I call her, immediately, and tell her 
where I am, for I am sure they are greatly alarmed 
over my sudden disappearance.” 

“Well, you must make your letter very short,” 
said the nurse, “for I fear you will overtask your- 
self. If you are careful I think you can sit up by the 
day after tomorrow.” 


the} e}arl of RossvinivE} hau, 217 

“I shall be very careful,” Dorothy replied. “I 
shall write only enough to tell them where I am, 
but I must do that. I ought to have done so long 
ago.” 

The nurse brought her writing materials and in 
a very few minutes Dorothy had the letter written. 
She did not tell them any of the particulars, only 
that she had been ill, but was much better now and 
would be able to come home in a few days. 

Mr. West went to post the letter, and when he re- 
turned he said to Dorothy, “Perhaps you would like 
to hear why I lost sight of my sister for so many 
years.” 

“Yes,” said Dorothy, “if you do not mind telling 
me, I should like to know ever so much.” And the 
old man told her the story. 

“Sister Anna’s was a very impulsive nature. She 
was quick to make friends with any one, and when 
she was a friend she was a friend in the highest sense 
of the word. She would fight their battles as though 
they were her own, and would remain loyal and 
true to them, come what might. When she first met 
Ralph Donald she was sixteen, and he was her mu- 
sic teacher. They fell in love with each other and 
he asked her to marry him and she consented. He 
then, like an honorable gentleman, asked my father 
for her hand. He objected, for he was a very proud 
and haughty man. I was proud, too, but I think I 
am about over all that now. I have almost grieved 
my life away because I let my sister go away with- 
out ever telling her that I forgave her. She was just 


2l8 


the) sart or rossvitte) halt 


seventeen when she became betrothed to Ralph Don- 
ald, and she pleaded with my father to consent to 
their marriage. He would not. He told her he had 
rather see her in her coffin than the wife of Ralph 
Donald. This almost broke her heart, for she loved 
Ralph more than all the world. She remained with 
us two years pleading with father to give his con- 
sent, and at last she told him she loved Ralph and 
would marry him, for she had given her promise, 
and, though she was sorry to disobey him, she 
meant to- keep her promise to Ralph. Father grew 
angry at this and told her, if she did, he would dis- 
inherit her. Anna kissed him and throwing her 
arms about his neck she pleaded with him once again 
to give his consent, but he was stubborn and proud 
to the last. The next morning when we awoke 
Anna had eloped with her lover, and on the follow- 
ing morning we read of her marriage to Ralph Don- 
ald. Mother entreated father to forgive her, but 
he would not. Mother soon died of grief and on her 
deathbed she begged my father to send for Anna, 
that she might see her once again. I joined my en- 
treaties with mother’s but that did no good. Father 
said she should never come in his house again, and 
mother died with a prayer on her lips, that as she 
could never see her child again on earth, that she 
might meet her in Heaven. Two years after this 
my father died and since then I have been search- 
ing for Anna in every part of England. That was 

my business in the town of S the day I first 

saw you. When I saw you that day you looked so 


the: dart ot rossvittd hatt 219 

much like her that I came near calling you Anna. 
After you were gone I regretted that I did not ask 
your name. I could not keep my eyes from your 
face that day, you looked so like my sister. And so 
dear little Anna is gone,” he said sadly, “without a 
forgiving word from either father, mother or 
brother. I shall try to atone for some of the wrong 
I did her, by seeing that her child shall never want.” 

There were tears in Dorothy’s eyes when Mr. 
West ceased speaking. 

“That is a very sad story, Uncle Joseph,” she said. 
Then she picked up the picture again and mur- 
mured, “That is why those beautiful gray eyes have 
such a mournful look.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Mrs. Lorrimer received Dorothy's letter next day 
after it was written and when she opened it she gave 
a loud cry of pleasure. 

“Oh !" she cried, “Dorothy is safe !" 

“Where is she?" cried Essie, springing up. 

“She is in London," Mrs. Lorrimer replied, and 
read the letter aloud. When she had finished read- 
ing, Essie said, 

“Oh! mamma, what do you suppose can have 
happened to her?" 

“God only knows what the poor child has been 
through these three weeks/' she replied. “Kenton 
must know at once." 

She sat down and wrote Kenton a few words, en- 
closed Dorothy's letter with hers and then went to 
post it. 

Kenton received the letter the following day. 

“You surely have good news," Rupert cried, 
“from your looks, Kenton ! Is Dorothy found ?" 

“Yes, yes, — Dorothy is found," he replied. “Just 
read this," passing the letter over to him. 

“Do let us go to her at once, Kenton," said Ru- 
pert, when he had read it. “Poor little Dorothy ! I 
wonder what has happened to her?" 

“Come along, Kenton. Don't let us lose a mo- 
ment. No. — Beacon street," he said, “why we 
would never have found her, that is over on the 
other side of the city." 

They left the room, and hailing a passing cab they 


THE) EARI, ROSSVIUvS HAW, 


221 


drove to Beacon street. A maid answered the bell, 
and ushered them into the library to wait the ap- 
pearance of Mr. West. 

They did not have long to wait. As he came 
into the room Kenton and Rupert rose, and Kenton 
at once recognized him as the old gentleman of the 
waiting room. He advanced toward them and 
shaking hands with them heartily he bade them be 
seated. 

“Is this the place where Dorothy Donald is stay- 
ing?” Kenton asked. “We have just received a let- 
ter from her stating that she is here, and has had a 
very narrow escape from death.” 

“Yes, she is here,” Mr. West replied, “she is just 
able to sit up this morning. Would you like to see 
her?” 

“Very much,” Kenton replied, eagerly. 

“Then come this way, please,” the old gentleman 
said, leading the way to' the room that Dorothy oc- 
cupied. 

‘Mr. West told them to' wait at the door while he 
told Dorothy who wished to see her. Returning in 
a few minutes he ushered them into her room. It 
was a joyful meeting, and for a while they all talked 
at once, the boys looking at Dorothy all the time and 
asking questions. There was much for Dorothy to 
tell, and when she ended by telling them that Mr. 
West was no other than her uncle, Kenton and Ru- 
pert could not express their surprise in words. 

“That reminds me of a paper Mr. Anderson found 


222 


THE) E)ARI. OT ROSSVIIvTE: HAIT, 


in Mrs. Miller's house/' Kenton said, taking the pa- 
per from his pocket and passing it to Dorothy. 

She read it and passed it to* Mr. West. 

“Read this," she said, eagerly. “I suppose there's 
not the least doubt now but that you are my uncle." 

When Mr. West had finished reading, there were 
tears in his eyes. 

“To think my only sister should die away from all 
her friends and in the most wretched of places, while 
I have more money than I can make use of! Oh! 
my poor little sister, my poor little sister ! She knew 
I would be kind to her child, for my sister's sake! 
Indeed I will, God helping me. I will try to expiate 
the great wrong done her." 

When the old man ceased speaking Kenton told 
them how the policeman had forced Mrs. Miller to 
tell where Dorothy was, and when Kenton was 
through with that, Rupert said, “I declare, Dorothy, 
you are a real heroine! My! but you have pluck! 
You used those scissors splendidly!" 

“That is what I meant to do, if he molested me," 
she replied. “I was determined to take my own 
part." 

“You did not fail in taking your own part," Ken- 
ton said. “I don't think I could have done so well 
with nothing but a pair of scissors, and I agree with 
Rupert, you are a real little heroine." 

“Well," said Dorothy, laughing, “if I am the 
heroine, Uncle Joseph is the hero. Had it not been 
for him, I should not have escaped from the wretch 
as soon as I did. 


THE EARL OE ROSSVITTE HATE 


223 


“Why, I am no hero,” said Mr. West, falteringly ; 
“when you ran, and he shot you, all I could do was 
to stand and look on; then I brought you here. 
Now I do not call that anything like a hero.” 

“Why, Uncle Joseph,” said Dorothy, looking at 
him lovingly, “you are a dear old hero for being on 
the spot at just the right moment.” 

Rupert’s face had grown dark with rage when 
Mr. West had said that the man had shot Dorothy, 
and he muttered, “I’ll kill that man, so help me 
Heaven !” 

Dorothy grew pale and she entreated Rupert to 
let it all go, since she was alive. 

“Do not ask me not to,” Rupert said. “Dorothy, 
I mean to shoot that base scoundrel down like a 
dog.” 

Then, after a while Kenton made an excuse for 
Mr. West and himself to leave the room, as he knew 
that Rupert wished to be alone with Dorothy. 

When they had left the room Rupert took Doro- 
thy’s hand in both his own, and said, “Dear little 
hand, how white and thin it has grown. I love this 
little hand, Dorothy, and to think I came so near 
losing it.” 

Dorothy flushed, turned her head and looked out 
the window, Rupert still holding her hand. There 
was silence for a moment or two, then Rupert said, 
“Look at me, Dorothy.” 

Dorothy turned her head and looked straight into 
his love-lit eyes. Then her lids drooped shyly, and 
she said, “Why must I look at you, Rupert?” 


224 


the: sari, o r rossviWwe: hatt 


“Because I love you,” he said, “because I like 
you to look at me that way. When you look at me 
in that way, Dorothy, my heart gives a great bound 
and I wonder if it is not love I see in those beautiful 
gray eyes. Is it Dorothy? Do you love me? You 
know and have known for a long time that I love 
you more than any one else in the world.” 

“No, I did not know it,” she said. “Do you really 
love me? You, who will one day be an earl, love a 
little street-waif like me? You cannot mean that, — 
that would be too good to be true.” 

“That is just what I mean to say,” he replied, 
“that I love you. But when I love you, I am not 
loving a street- waif, but the very sweetest, dearest 
little girl in the world.” 

“If I am not a waif now, I was before Kenton 
found me.” 

“It makes no difference to* me what you have 
been,” he replied. “It is what you are today. And, 
Dorothy, I want to> know if you love me? Do you, 
Dorothy? Won’t you promise me that some day 
you will be my wife? Won’t you promise me this, 
Dorothy?” pleadingly. “Won’t you tell me you love 
me ? Ah ! I see that you will not answer me, — you 
do not love me !” 

“I do love you, Rupert, and think I have ever 
since the day I first met you. I have never loved 
any one else.” 

“Do you,” he said, “really love me?” and he gave 
her hand a tender pressure. 

“Forgive me, dear,” he said, as she tried to with- 


THE) e:ART OF ROSSVIIvIv^ HAU, 225 

draw her hand, “I will let go of your hands, if you 
will just tell me that again.” 

“No,” she said teasingly, “once is enough for any- 
body to tell another that, especially when it affects 
them as it does you.” 

“You don't mean to tell me that you won't allow 
me to tell you I love you any more ?” 

“Oh ! no,” she said, and laughed. “I only meant 
that once was enough for a girl to tell that story. 
Boys have the advantage of girls; they can tell it 
as often as they please.” 

“Now, I don't agree with you there,” he said, “I 
think it as fair on one side as the other. But we'll 
discuss that at a more opportune time, for Mr. West 
and Kenton will come in here pretty soon and you 
have not answered my question yet.” 

“What was the question?” she said, trying to look 
demure. “I think I've forgotten.” 

“You little dear,” he said, “you know you haven't 
forgotten. But I'll tell you again. Will you be my 
wife one of these days, — when we are older?” 

“I don't think I can,” she said; “that would please 
you too well.” 

“I know it would,” he said ; “that is why I want 
you to tell me. Now, don't you think you would 
like to please me? Do please,” he said as he heard 
Mr. West and Kenton open the door. 

“Well, as I would like to see how you look when 
you are pleased, I suppose I must say yes.” 

“That's a dear.” 

Kenton and Mr. West now entered the room, and 
J 5 


226 


THE) E)ARL, OT ROSSVIIvIvE) HAU, 


looking first at Rupert, then at Dorothy, Kenton 
winked knowingly and said, “I can guess something 
that no one thinks I know.” 

Dorothy blushed and looked out the window, and 
Rupert said, “Just keep your guessing to yourself, 
or I might do some guessing, too.” And he looked 
so happy that Kenton could not help saying, “Ru- 
pert, leave off trying to guess anything, you are too 
happy.” 

Mr. West did not seem to notice this conversa- 
tion. He was gazing at Dorothy and his mind had 
gone back many years. But Kenton inquired how 
long it would be before Dorothy could go home, and 
Mr. West, starting, said he thought she could go in 
a week. Rupert and Kenton then took their leave, 
and when they were on the street Kenton said, as he 
looked knowingly at Rupert, “What did she say, 
Rue? But there is no need to ask, for I know from 
your looks what she said.” 

“I won’t tell what she said,” Rupert replied, “but 
I will tell you what I think. I think she is the dear- 
est little girl in England or any other part of the 
globe, for that matter.” 

“That is answer enough,” Kenton said. “Accept 
my congratulations,” and gave Rupert’s hand a 
hearty grasp. 


CHAPTER XXV 


Kenton and Rupert stayed in London until 
Dorothy was well enough to go home. They 
went to see her every day and Mr. West said he 
thought their visits did more good than the phy- 
sician. And when, the following Sunday, they 
started for Rossville, they all insisted that Mr. West 
accompany them. 

Rupert had telegraphed his father to send a 
carriage to the station to meet them, and when 
they reached Rossville, the carriage was waiting and 
they drove to Mrs. Lorrimer’s. As soon as Dorothy 
could release herself from Mrs. Lorrimer and Essie, 
she introduced Mr. West as her rescuer. Mrs. Lor- 
rimer seized his hand, and thanked him so earnestly 
that Mr. West was completely overcome, and when 
Dorothy told Mrs. Lorrimer that she had found Mr. 
West was her mother’s only brother, she was very 
glad to welcome him. 

Mr. West stayed until the following morning 
and then returned to London, happy in the 
thought that he had found his sister’s child, but 
sorry she could not stay with him, and brighten 
his old age. Kenton and Rupert returned to 
Eton, after staying at home for a week, glad to 
think they had only one more term of school. 

Dorothy told Essie that she had promised to 
marry Rupert some day and Essie said, with a 
sad, sweet smile, “Oh! yes, Miss Dorothy, what 
did I tell you?” 


228 


TH£ SARI, OS ROSSVISSS HASS 


Then Essie’s face assumed that sad, lonely look, 
as she put her arms about Dorothy, and kissing 
her, she said, “I hope you will never be parted 
from your lover, Dorothy, as I have been from 
mine. I wish you all the happiness that you de- 
serve for being such a dear little comforter in this 
lonely life of mine.” 

“Thank you,” Dorothy replied, “but, Essie, I 
am parted from him now.” 

“But not for a great length of time,” Essie 
replied. “He will be gone only a few months, and 
it is almost four years since Claude went away. 
Think of that, Dorothy, four long, lonely, dreary 
years, since he went away and left me. I don’t 
think I shall ever care for money, for it was for 
the sake of money he went away.” 

“No, no,” Dorothy said, “do not say that. He 
did not go for the sake of money. He went for 
your sake; he went to get the money for your 
sake.” 

“Yes, you are right, Dorothy, as you always 
are,” Essie replied, “and I am wrong. But it 
seems to me sometimes as if I could not wait an- 
other day. If he does not come in one more year 
I shall cease to look for him.” 

“Now you must not do that, either,” Dorothy 
replied. “As long as there is life, there is hope. 
He said he would come back to you, and I am sure 
he will, though it should be twenty years.” 

Then Mrs. Lorrimer came into the room, and 
Dorothy said, “Mamma, what do you suppose our 
little girl here has been saying?” 


THD DARI, OD ROSSVIDDD HAU, 229 

“I cannot imagine/’ Mrs. Eorrimer replied. 

“She said, if Claude did not come in at least 
one more year, she would cease to look for him. 
I told her that Claude would come back; and, 
mamma, don’t you think so too?” 

“Most assuredly he will,” she said, “and you 
must not think that he will not.” 

“I do hope and pray that he will,” Essie said 
sadly. “But sometimes I think he will never 
come. I shall endeavor to think he will come. If 
he should never come I know it would be no fault 
of his. But we might die, you know.” 

“That is all imagination,” said Dorothy. “Come 
along with me, for a walk, and forget all those 
nonsensical thoughts. We will gather flowers 
and listen to the happy little birds singing. I do 
love the dear little birds, they always seem so 
light-hearted and happy, so very unlike my little 
pet bird here,” smiling significantly at Essie, “who 
is always so gloomy, and who permits her 
thoughts to run away with her.” 

* * * * 

It was the first of November. Kenton, Rupert 
and Daphne were again at home. 

Kenton had not told Daphne of his love for 
her, but it could be read, in every look and word, 
every smile and clasp of the hand. All could see 
this except Daphne herself. She had never 
thought for a moment that Kenton was in love 
with her, but she knew she loved him, and often 
wondered if her affection would ever be returned ? 

One day when she and Kenton were together, 


230 


THE EARL OE ROSSVILLE HALL 


he whispered to her that his heart was hers, and 
asked if it were possible that she could ever learn to 
love him? 

“Ever learn to love you?” she said. “Why, Ken- 
ton, I learned that years ago. I think I have 
loved you ever since the day you saved my life, — 
when I opened my eyes and saw you standing over 
me, with such a loving, pitying look in your beau- 
tiful eyes. I discovered long ago that I loved 
you more than any one else, even more than 
Rupert, and I have wondered many times if you 
would ever care for me.” 

“Oh! Daphne,” he said, joyfully, “this is more 
than I expected. If I had ever thought you loved 
me, I should have told you long ago. For I think 
I have loved you since that first day we met. No 
matter where I was or what I was doing, I was 
thinking of you. And I fear that my love will be 
my sorrow. You cannot marry me, only a poor 
boy, with nothing to look forward to, and you an 
earl’s daughter.” 

“An earl’s daughter,” she repeated. “Do you 
suppose for a moment, that would make any dif- 
ference with me? Do you not know, Kenton, I 
think that honor comes before all else, and do I 
not know that you are honor itself? I would 
marry you just as soon, being an earl’s daughter, 
as if I were a beggar.” 

“Oh! Daphne, do you mean to say you will 
marry me just as I am?” 

“No, I did not mean to say that,” she replied, 
“for you have hot yet asked me to marry you.” 


THE EARE OE ROSSVIEEE HAEE 


23I 


“Well, if I should ask you, what would your 
answer be?” he continued, bending over so as 
to look in her eyes. 

“I won’t tell you what I would say,” she re- 
plied. “For I do not want you to know until you 
ask me, if you ever do.” 

“Well,” he said, “I mean to ask you then and 
see what your answer will be. Will you marry 
me, Daphne ? I don’t mean any time soon, but in 
some two or three years. Will you be my wife 
then?” 

“What if I should tell you no,” she said. 
“What would you do ?” 

“I should go away, where I would never see 
your face again, for I could not bear to look at 
you. Oh, Heaven, Daphne, I could not endure 
that !” 

“Well,” she continued, “what if I should say 
yes.” 

“Just say yes,” he replied, as his face bright- 
ened, “and then you will see.” 

“Well, yes, then,” she said, glancing shyly at 
him. 

“Do you really mean to say you will one day 
be my wife ?” he said, as he clasped her hand. 

“I really meant to say I will one day be your 
wife,” she repeated, “and be proud to bear your 
name.” 

“God bless you, my little Daphne !” he said. 
“How I love you for those words ! I know I am not 
handsome, Daphne, and have nothing to offer you 
but love. But I’ll tell you now, you will never 


232 THE) E)ART OT ROSSVIUvE) HAL,!, 

find another who loves you as I do. But, Daphne, 
do you suppose Lord and Lady Ross will ever 
give their consent?” 

“I think perhaps papa will,” she replied, “I 
hardly know what to think about mamma. I am 
almost sure she will not. But, Kenton, I love you, 
and I mean to marry you, come what may, and 
when mamma discovers that I am determined, per- 
haps she will give her consent. If she does not, 
I will not break my promise to you Kenton, 
though I should be compelled to run away from 
home. I mean to tell mamma when I go home, 
what I have promised you today and hear what 
she has to say about it.” 

“I should like to be behind a curtain when you 
tell her and hear what she has to say,” Kenton 
replied. 

“I will wager she will be in a towering rage,” 
said Daphne, “but that will make no difference to 
me. I am accustomed to that. For my part, I do 
not mind her angry spells in the least. But, 
Rupert, — my, how angry he does get sometimes 
when mamma begins to talk of poor people! I 
may as well tell you, Kenton, she does not like 
poor people. Do you know, Kenton, I would give 
the world to exchange places with some poor girl, 
for I sometimes think they are the happiest people 
in the world.” 

“And so Lady Ross does not like poor people,” 
Kenton said. “Why have you not told me before, 
Daphne. And I would never have troubled her 
ladyship with my presence at the Hall.” 


the; SARI, OS ROSSVIUvS HASS 233 

“Because I suspected that. I knew if I told 
you mamma did not like you, you would not come 
to the Hall any more, and I could not bear that. 
But now the reason I told you was this. There 
is no danger of me losing you now, for you are 
going to be my husband some day, and now that 
I have that claim on you, you cannot well get 
away from me. Do you see?” she said, playfully. 
“I was very cunning, I waited until I had ensnared 
my bird, then informed him of his danger,” and she 
laughed gaily. 

“Well,” said Kenton, “you should have told me 
of this long ago. But if you love me, I don’t really 
think I would care if the rest of the world hated me, 
for your love is more precious to me than all else. 
So long as you remain true to me, I shall be 
happy.” 

“Well, then,” she said, “you may rest assured 
that you will always be happy, for I shall love you 
all my life.” 

“And you will be a little dear to do so,” he re- 
plied. “But, Daphne, are you very sure that, under 
your mother’s influence, you will not be led to dis- 
like me ?” 

“No, Kenton,” she replied, “if that had been 
possible I would have learned to dislike you, 
long ago. You may rest easy on that subject. 
The more she censures you, the more I love you. 
I cannot tell why I am that way. But I am, for 
I know she is greatly mistaken. I suppose that is 
the reason.” 

“Well,” he replied with a sigh, “I hope she will 


234 the Eare oe rossvieeE halt 

continue in the same way if that is the case. I am 
sure I want you to love me more every day.” 

“I do that anyway,” she said. “Each day that 
goes by, I love you more and more, and I some- 
times wonder when that love will ever cease.” 

“I hope it will never cease,” he said. 

“I know I shall always love you,” she replied; 
“but I was thinking, I should love you to the 
fullest extent some day, and if I should do that, 
of course I could not love you any more then.” 

“Oh, yes; I comprehend your meaning now,” 
he said; “but, Daphne, when you are alone with 
your mother, and I will not be near, to take my 
own part, I fear the result.” 

“There’s no need for you to fear anything of the 
kind, Kenton,” she replied; “for have I not told 
you, that I would be true to you in all things ?” 

“I trust that you will,” he replied. “For should 
I lose you now, I think I should go mad.” 

Rupert then came up to them, with Dorothy 
at his side, and told Daphne he thought it time to 
be going home. She consented and Kenton said 
aside to Daphne, “Shall I tell?” and she replied, 
“Of course, you must tell.” Then he told Rupert 
and Dorothy of his great happiness and Rupert 
said, as he took Kenton’s hand, “I would rather 
that Daphne would marry you, Kenton Lorrimer, 
than any one. But I fear there is trouble ahead. 
But I give you my word of honor, I shall do all 
that lies in my power to aid you.” 

Kenton thanked him and then Rupert and 
Daphne went home. 


CHAPTER XXVI 

When Rupert and Daphne reached the Hall, 
Daphne went at once to her mother. 

“Mamma, I have something to tell you, which no 
doubt will displease you very much.” 

“Something about those paupers you and Rupert 
have been visiting this afternoon, I suppose,” she 
said. 

“Yes,” said Daphne, “something about those 
‘paupers/ if you wish to call them that. I promised 
Kenton Lorrimer this afternoon that I would one 
day be his wife.” 

Lady Ross threw up her hands in astonishment. 

“Daphne, are you in earnest about this, or are you 
jesting ?” 

“I never was more in earnest in my life, mamma. 
I have promised to be his wife, and I mean to keep 
my promise.” 

“You shall do nothing of the kind,” Lady Ross 
replied. “The idea of my daughter marrying Ken- 
ton Lorrimer ! He is not fit to be your servant. I 
would rather see you put in your grave than to see 
you the wife of Kenton Lorrimer.” 

“Well, mamma,” Daphne replied, “you shall most 
certainly see one of those two things, and as for 
me not keeping my promise, time will prove that.” 

“You don’t mean to say you would disobey your 
mother,” said Lady Ross, “for the sake of this fel- 
low — this cur!” 

“I say, mamma, I should dislike to disobey you, 


236 TH£ £ARL O F ROSSVIU,£ HAI.Iv 

but if you will not give your consent, I shall be com- 
pelled to do so. And please do not call Kenton by 
such names, mamma, for I love him, and it almost 
breaks my heart to hear you talk of him in that 
way.” 

“ ‘LoveT ” said Lady Ross, with a sneer, “you are 
not old enough to understand the meaning of love.” 

“Mamma,” said Daphne, “have you not told me 
many times that you had loved papa since you were 
fifteen years of age, and still you say I do not know 
the meaning of love. But I know I do, and some 
day I will show you what the meaning of true 
love is.” 

“You shall never marry this man, Daphne. You 
may as well give up thinking you will.” 

“The only thing that will keep us apart will be 
death.” 

“Death will not keep you apart, neither shall you 
marry him,” Lady Ross replied haughtily. “For I 
mean that you shall marry Sir Lancelot Bradway. 
I have had him selected for you for several years. I 
am sure you will like him. He is handsome and is 
very wealthy.” 

“And the last, if nothing else, would serve to 
make me hate him,” Daphne replied. “And, 
mamma, if I must be so firm, I say, I would not 
marry him if he was made of gold. I will marry 
for nothing but love, and I love Kenton Lorrimer 
and shall continue to love him. And I would not 
give him up for all the Sir Lancelots in England. 
Mamma, would you blight my life for the sake of 
gold?” 


THE} E)ARIv OT ROSSVIIvIvE: haix 


237 


“No,” she replied, “I do not want to blight your 
life, but I am sure if you will just think about this 
awhile you will change your mind. If you marry 
a wealthy man you will have all that you could wish 
for, and on the other hand, if you marry Kenton 
Lorrimer, you would live in poverty all your days.” 

“Mamma,” Daphne replied, “look at the question 
this way. Suppose Kenton is poor. He cannot help 
that. I love him and he loves me. I am sure he 
would make a good, loving husband. I am sure he 
would be kind to me always. And if we were poor, 
we would be happy. We will not be so poor, after 
all, for at papa’s death one-half of his money will 
come to me, and I am sure that will be sufficient for 
Kenton and me. I have no desire to be rich. Now 
here is the other side of the question. Suppose I 
should marry some wealthy man for his money. Do 
you think I would enjoy any of that money? Ken- 
ton’s eyes are brighter than all the diamonds I could 
purchase with the hateful money. His heart is as 
true and good as gold, and his love is worth more to 
me than all the wealth in England. He has my 
heart, and do you think I could be otherwise than 
miserable as the wife of one man when my heart be- 
longed to another? I would sooner be dead and at 
rest, for then I know I would be happy. I told Ken- 
ton I would marry him. I do not wish to disobey 
you, mamma, and I will never marry him without 
your consent. But I tell you this much, I shall 
never, no never marry anybody but Kenton Lorri- 
mer. Oh! mamma,” she cried, as she burst into 


238 TH£ SARI, o£ ROSSVIIvIvK hau, 

tears, “think of the time when you were young! 
How do you think you could have endured anything 
like this 

“When I loved,, I loved one that was worthy,” 
Lady Ross replied sternly. 

“So do I, mamma, and I love him just as much as 
you loved papa. If Kenton is not worthy of my 
love, then no one is, I know.” 

“Well, for that matter,” Lady Ross said, “I 
know he cannot help being poor. If he could of 
course he would. Perhaps that is why he pretends 
to love you ; he thinks he can get a fortune with you. 
But I tell you, Daphne Ross, if you are foolish 
enough to marry Kenton Lorrimer, not a penny of 
my money will you ever get. As for his being kind 
to you. Pm not so sure of that. Those eyes that you 
say shine so> much like diamonds, are sparkling with 
wickedness. I would, as I said a moment ago, 
rather see you dead than his wife. I would rather 
die myself than see you his wife.” 

“Oh! mamma,” said Daphne, “please, please do 
not talk like that ! You are greatly mistaken in your 
opinion of Kenton; you do not know him. You 
have never heard him talk as much as I. 

“It is you, foolish girl, who makes the mistake,” 
she replied. 

“I am not the only one who gives Kenton Lorri- 
mer a good name,” Daphne went on. “Every one 
likes him. Ask Rupert about Kenton; he can tell 
you; everybody in this part of the country that is 
acquainted with him will tell the same story; every 


the: e:aRIv OT ROSSVIIvIvE: HAIyly 


239 


one gives him the same name, all but you. When he 
speaks of you it is in the highest terms of praise/' 

“What do I care for his praise?" she said, dis- 
dainfully. “What does it all amount to? You are 
deceived by that boy, Daphne. Some day you will 
see that I speak the truth." 

“Mamma, I cannot agree with you. You do Ken- 
ton a great injustice. I will not argue with you any 
longer, for I see you are determined to have it your 
own way." 

“All right, go away now and leave me alone," 
said her mother. “I have heard Kenton Lorrimer 
until I am sick of the name ! But I wish to tell you 
one thing more, you shall not gO' to- Mrs. Lorrimer’s 
any more, neither can Kenton Lorrimer come here. 
Henceforth you must meet as strangers." 

“Oh! mamma," she said, as she fell upon her 
knees by her mother's side, “do not deprive me of 
the only happiness I know! What will my life be, 
shut up here at the Hall. If I cannot see Kenton, I 
do not wish to see any one else." 

“Well," said her ladyship, coldly, “you can please 
yourself as to that, Daphne. But I meant exactly 
what I said." 

“Mamma," she said pleadingly, as the tears fell 
fast, “do have mercy." 

“I have said it, Daphne, and I shall keep my 
word," she replied. 

“O Heaven, have mercy!" Daphne murmured. 
“Mamma, may I see him just once more?" 


240 


the: E)ARIv 0T ROSSVILTE: HATIv 


“No,” she replied sharply, “if it be in my power 
you shall never see him again.” 

“So be it then,” Daphne said as she left the room. 
“Oh! God help me.” 

Daphne went straight to Rupert and told him 
what her mother had said. Rupert said he would go 
and see what effect his words would have on his 
haughty lady mother. 

But he soon came back to* Daphne, with his eyes 
flashing with anger, and said he had met with no 
better success than she had. But he said that he 
could tell her in a moment what he would do, if he 
were in her place, — that he would elope with Kenton 
Lorrimer before another day. 

“No,” said Daphne, “I will not do that; if mam- 
ma is cruel enough to treat me in this way, I shall 
try to endure it. But one thing I am sure of, Ru- 
pert,” and she clinched her little hands so tightly 
that the nails almost brought the blood, “I shall 
never marry this Sir Lancelot. I would die first, — 
or Sir anybody else, for that matter. If I cannot 
have the one I love, I shall never marry.” 

“That’s the way to* talk, Daphne,” Rupert replied. 
“Stick to that, and some day you will be Kenton 
Lorrimer’s wife, for I mean to help you all I can.” 

“Rupert,” she said, as she clasped her arms about 
his neck, “I love you, oh ! so much for those words ! 
I wonder what mamma will think and say when she 
finds that you mean to marry Dorothy.” 

“I have not the least idea,” he replied, “and little 
do I care. With all due respect to my mother, I am 


The: e:aRT OT ROSSVITIvE: HAU, 


241 


my own commander. I love mamma and would be 
sorry to disobey her, but I love Dorothy, too, more 
than all else in the world. If I were you, Daphne, I 
would be true to Kenton, no* matter what mamma 
may say, and I will do all I can for you, I’ll carry 
letters and bring them from Kenton to you, for I 
mean to go to Mrs. Lorrimer’s just as often as 
ever.” 

“Yes,” she said, “I must write Kenton and tell him 
what mamma said.” 

When she had written the letter she gave it to 
Rupert, who on the following day carried it to Ken- 
ton. 

When Kenton read Daphne’s letter he turned to 
Rupert. “Rupert, Daphne tells me that you are go- 
ing to be our friend. Is it true? Do you mean to 
help us out?” 

“Yes,” said Rupert, “for I know Daphne loves 
you. I am sure she loves you as much as I love 
Dorothy, and were I in your place I should be glad 
to have a friend to aid me. And that is what I mean 
to be to you.” 

“Rupert,” said Kenton, “I think you have the best 
heart a man ever had. Some day, if it ever lies in 
my power, Til repay your kindness.” 

“Why, you have already done that very thing,” 
Rupert replied. “You brought one of the dearest 
little girls in the world home with you, to be my 
wife. That repays a thousand times for all I can do 
for you.” 

16 


CHAPTER XXVII 


Kenton wrote a long letter in answer to Daphne, 
and, giving it to Rupert, he walked out of the house 
and down the road, busy with thoughts of the little 
girl he had loved from childhood. He was sure 
that Daphne would be true to* him, but he would 
never marry her without her parents’ consent. 
Would they ever give their consent? He was more 
miserable than he had ever been in all his life before. 
Oh, if he only had money! Daphne had said she 
would never marry another. He would go to work 
and she would wait for him until he should become 
a rich man. One more year at Eton, then he and 
Rupert would go into- business as partners and prob- 
ably in four* or five years Lady Ross would change 
her opinion of him and give him Daphne. With this 
hope he turned about toward home. 

When he reached there he met Rupert just coming 
out of the gate. They had a long talk and Ken- 
ton entered the house, thinking things looked very 
gloomy indeed, but satisfied that one day Daphne 
would be his wife. 

The days went by until the time came around that 
they should again leave for Eton. Kenton was com- 
pelled to gO' without seeing Daphne, and this seemed 
very hard to both of them. Daphne was to> remain 
at home, as she did not wish to go back to school in 
France. She had pleaded long and earnestly with 
her mother to let her see Kenton before he left, but 
Lady Ross remained firm upon that subject. 


THl£ 3ARL OF ROSSVIUJS HAI^Iv 


243 


In the course of two or three months, Daphne’s 
sorrow began to tell upon her. She began to droop 
and pine. Her merry voice was no longer heard 
laughing or singing, making the old Hall gay with 
the music. Lord Ross called her "nervous” ; Lady 
Ross said she was "sick” ; the servants called her 
"mighty queer” ; but Mrs. Sullivan, to whom she 
had told her story, knew that it was love — faithful, 
undying love. 

* * * * 

It was spring again. The birds were returning 
and their sweet notes could be heard in woodland 
and meadow. Down in the valley they sang joy- 
ously, while the silvery brooks sparkled clear, and, 
bubbling over the stones, echoed the music of the lit- 
tle birds. 

But none of this joy did Daphne see. Shut up in 
her room, she sat day after day, thinking of the 
dreary shadows that encompassed her, and of that 
loved one whom she feared she would never see 
again. Lady Ross grew alarmed as Daphne contin- 
ued in this way; nothing that was done for her 
served to cheer her. Finally she told Lord Ross that 
the only thing left for them to do, was to travel, that 
this would probably bring Daphne back to her old 
self again. Lord Ross assented to this, for he loved 
Daphne more than all else. 

They left the Hall to be gone until the following 
September. Daphne did not want to go, for this 
would separate her from her old friend, Mrs. Sulli- 
van, the only one in whom she could confide. But 


244 


thd Dari, od rossviddD hau. 


she went with them, quietly and sadly. Essie was as 
lovely as ever that spring, and Dorothy was as happy 
as the days are long. She received a letter from 
Rupert every week, and sang from morning to night. 
She chided Essie playfully for being so still, and 
teased Mrs. Lorrimer because she was as solemn as 
Essie. But how could Mrs. Lorrimer be happy 
when she knew that both her children were so very 
unhappy ? The cottage would be a lonely place were 
it not for blithesome Dorothy. 

It was about the middle of the following August, 
when, one morning, Dorothy received a telegram 
that her uncle, Joseph West, was dead. She was 
greatly grieved on hearing this, for she had learned 
to love the old man very much. Of course, she at 
once set out for London, to attend his burial, accom- 
panied by Mrs. Lorrimer and Essie. 

Directly after the burial, Mr. West's will was 
read. He left all his property to- his dearly loved 
niece, Dorothy Donald. So it came about that the 
little ragged Dorothy was at last the beautiful and 
accomplished heiress, worthy to bear the name of 
Lady Ross, or of Lady anybody else. 

She said she would like to have received this 
money sooner, so she could have gone with Daphne 
to France. But as she did not, she would not go 
alone, but would stay with her old friends. Now 
she would not be penniless when she married, and 
she was glad of the money for that reason. His 
lady mother could not say now that he married a 
penniless outcast. Rupert wrote that he was sorry 


the: e;ART OF ROSSYITIvE) HAIyT 


245 


she had received so much money, for he always 
meant to marry a poor girl, but he supposed he 
would have to change his mind, for he was sure 
money would have no effect on her, that she would 
still be the same little Dorothy. 

When Dorothy read Rupert's letter she exclaimed, 
“What a strange boy Rupert is! Do you know, 
Essie, he says he is sorry I am so wealthy because 
he has always said he would marry a poor girl, but 
he says he supposes he would have to change his 
mind." 

“Well," said Essie, “that proves he is honorable 
and true, and you should love him the more for say- 
ing that. Suppose you had never received all this 
money, you would have been just plain little Dor- 
othy Donald and it would have made no difference 
with him." 

“Well," she replied, “I am just plain little Doro- 
thy Donald anyway, so where's the difference? But 
I do love him for saying that, for I am sure I would 
not marry a man that was only marrying me for my 
money. Poor Uncle Joseph! Had I known he 
would have died so soon I would have stayed with 
him, then I could have come back to you. But I did 
not, and I shall try to not grieve about it. But I do 
wish I could have seen Uncle Joseph once more in 
life. But now he has met with mother, I fancy I 
can see them walking hand in hand, just as Uncle 
Joseph told me he and mother used to walk together 
when they were children. Just think of it, Essie, 
I haven't a relative in this wide, wide world ! But 


246 


the: e)art of rossvittf hati. 


I have friends that seem as dear to me as if they 
were relatives, for you seem as a very dear sister to 
me, Essie.” 

“You also seem like a very dear sister to me, Dor- 
othy,” Essie replied, “and I think I love you next to 
Claude.” 

“And now, Essie,” Dorothy said, “as you are off 
on that subject again, I want to ask you something. 
I don’t like to remind you of him, when you do let 
your mind get on something else for a moment. But 
how long has Claude been gone?” 

“It wants only two months of being five years, 
Dorothy, and how I have lived I shall never know. 
Had it not been for you, I don’t think I could have 
lived. Oh! I do wonder when Claude will come? 
It looks like he would come some time between this 
and Christmas.” 

“Oh ! don’t you hope he will,” Dorothy ex- 
claimed. “I’m just dying to see him.” 

“If you feel so, Dorothy, how do* you suppose it 
is with me?” 

“Well,” Dorothy replied, “I guess you are the 
same way, only I know you are more anxious than I. 
It’s only natural that you should be. But he’s com- 
ing soon, so put on a smile and look happy, just like 
you mean to look when Claude comes home.” 

Essie smiled faintly at this and said that she did 
not know how she would look when Claude came, 
but she knew how she would feel. 

“And Uncle Roger,” continued Dorothy, “I have 
heard his praises sung until I am almost as anxious 


the: e:art of rossvitte: haia. 


247 


to see him as Claude ! I wonder if he will come with 
Claude ?” 

“Yes,” Essie replied, “I think he will, for Claude 
said he would do his best to get him to return with 
him. But, Dorothy, when will that be ! I have al- 
most given up all hopes. 

“Don’t give up hopes, Essie,” she replied, “for I 
will wager that before another year rolls by, Claude 
will come home.” 

“I hope what you say may prove true,” she re- 
plied, “for Heaven knows, Fm weary and heartsick 
with waiting so long for my darling, so far over the 
sea.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


It was October again. The leaves had assumed 
their colors of scarlet and brown, and had covered 
the old earth as with a carpet of many colors. 
Lord and Lady Ross were at home again, but 
little good had their travels done Daphne. She 
was just the same sad-faced little girl she was 
when she went away, — a little paler and thinner 
perhaps. 

But on the day of which I am writing, she 
seemed more cheerful than usual. For Rupert 
was to come home the next day. He and Kenton 
had at last finished their Eton course and were 
now coming home to stay, and great preparations 
were going on at the Hall for Rupert’s return. 
Daphne had been gathering flowers all day, and 
had placed them in his room, for Rupert was very 
fond of flowers. When her work was complete, 
she stood off and looked at it with a satisfied air, 
thinking how happy she would be if Kenton could 
only enjoy this room with Rupert. Then she 
sighed and murmured to herself that it could not 
be, but that she was thankful she had her brother. 

On the following evening Rupert and Kenton 
came home, having won the highest honors of the 
college. On the way home, Rupert became sud- 
denly ill, and when he reached the Hall he had to 
be taken at once to his room, little suspecting how 
long it would be before he would leave that room. 

The next morning he was very ill. A week 


TH£ £ARI, OR ROSSVIRI/S HARR 


249 


went slowly by, and there was no improvement. 
The doctor could not account for his being taken 
so suddenly ill, neither could he give his disease a 
name. He had never seen any one in just this 
condition. The patient complained mostly of his 
head, and talked unceasingly of Kenton Lorrimer 
and Dorothy Donald. 

One day Rupert asked his mother to send for 
Kenton. Lady Ross did so rather unwillingly, 
and when Kenton arrived, she sent Daphne from 
the room. Daphne could hardly endure this, for 
she had built her hopes on seeing Kenton this 
time, if never again. Rupert requested that all 
should leave the room save Kenton, and when they 
were gone he turned to Kenton, and told him that 
he had a clever scheme in view. Kenton asked 
what it was, and Rupert replied that every one, 
even to the doctor, considered he would never re- 
cover, but he was sure that he would. But he was 
going to let them think he would die, and when 
he was very ill he would have a request to make. 

“They will of course grant me anything on my 
deathbed/’ he said, “and Kenton, what do you sup- 
pose that request will be?” 

“I haven’t the least idea,” Kenton replied. 

“I mean to get them to promise me that Daphne 
shall be your wife. I think this the only way to 
secure their consent.” 

Kenton listened eagerly to this, and when Rupert 
ceased speaking, he grasped his hand. 

“Oh, Rupert, if this plan only would succeed !” 

“Why there’s no doubt about that, Kenton,” he 
replied. “I am sure we will have success. I have 


250 


The: E)ARU OT ROSSVII.TE: hau. 


not been so ill all along as I appeared to be, and re- 
member, Kenton, I shall continue to grow worse 
every day — I mean I shall make believe, until possi- 
bly a week goes by, SO' as not to arouse suspicion. 
Then I shall make my request. They will of course 
grant it, then I will at once begin to improve. Then 
your road is clear.” 

“But suppose,” said Kenton, “they promise you 
this and then, when they find that you will not die, 
they should break that promise.” 

“Oh! don’t be uneasy, Kenton. Fll fix that. 
Trust me to that.” 

“All right then, Rupert,” he replied, “I don’t see 
how Daphne and I could get along without you. I 
should never have thought of that. Daphne used 
to say you could always think of just the right 
thing.” 

“And now, Kenton,” Rupert continued, “I think 
you had better call the others in, for I would not 
have them suspect anything for the world.” 

Kenton did as Rupert bade him, and in a short 
time left for home, after Rupert had made him 
promise to come every day. “For you know, Ken- 
ton, I want to be with you all I can, what time I 
live, for I think I will die, Kenton.” 

So Rupert appeared to grow worse every day. 
He was, in reality, very ill, but not so ill as every 
one thought. When a week had gone by, one day he 
lay perfectly quiet all day, and did not appear to 
notice anything or any one. He could hear his father 
and mother whispering with the old doctor anx- 


the; fart of rossvitte; hatt 


251 


iously, and he saw Daphne, with tears in her eyes, 
leave the room more than once, so as to not let him 
see her weeping, and he knew that now his plan 
would be a success. So that night some time near 
midnight, he called Lord Ross to his bedside. 
“Papa, I am going to ask a question, and I want you 
to answer me truthfully. I am not afraid to die, and 
if I must die, I have one request to* make. I want 
you to tell me honestly, if I must die.” 

Lord Ross was taken utterly by surprise ; he had 
not expected Rupert to ask anything like that, and 
hardly knew what answer to make him, for he did 
not want his son to know that they feared he would 
never recover. 

“Don’t ask me that question, my son, ask me any- 
thing else but that.” 

But Rupert continued, “If I must die, papa, please 
do not mind telling me, for I wish to know, very 
much. I am almost sure you think I will, so why 
try to make me think otherwise? Now answer me, 
please, am I going to die, papa ?” 

“Yes, my son,” the Earl said falteringly. “If you 
must know, I fear that you will. Why do you wish 
to know ?” 

“Because if I must die, I have a request to make, 
papa, and will you grant me this, the last thing it 
may be that I shall ever ask of you ?” 

“Yes,” said the Earl, as the tears streamed down 
his cheeks. “I will grant you anything, no matter 
what it may be, if it lies in my power.” 


252 THD DARI, 0 D ROSSVIDDD HAU, 

“Call mamma, then,” said Rupert, “I must have 
her promise, too.” 

The Earl did as Rupert bade him, and when Lady 
Ross stood by the bedside, Rupert looked up at her 
and smiled faintly, then said, “Mamma, will you 
promise to grant me the last thing I shall probably 
ever ask of you and papa? He has already con- 
sented to do this, and now will you make the same 
promise?” 

Lady Ross loved this boy, her first born, more 
than all else, and now what would she not do that 
he would ask of her, on his deathbed? So she, too, 
gave her promise, as Lord Ross had done, neither 
of them suspecting what that request would be. 

Rupert closed his eyes and was silent for a few 
moments, and then, opening them, he said, “Under 
no circumstances will either of you break this 
promise to me, come what may?” 

“Under no circumstances will we break this prom- 
ise to you, come what may,” they repeated after him. 

“We will do this for you as we hope for Heaven,” 
added Lord Ross. 

“Thank you,” said Rupert. “And here is my re- 
quest — that each of you will give your consent for 
Daphne to become the wife of Kenton Lorrimer.” 

“Granted,” said Lord Ross, “I have promised, 
and would not break that promise made to my dying 
son, though I should lose my life.” . 

But Lady Ross fell upon her knees by the bedside, 
and, taking his hand in both her own, as the tears 
flowed freely from her eyes, she said, “Oh, Rupert, 


TH£ SART OT ROSSYII^IvE: HATIv 


253 


why did you ever cause me to make a promise that 
cannot be broken ? God grant that I may die before 
I shall see Daphne the wife of Kenton Lorrimer.” 

“Mamma,” Rupert said, “you make a great mis- 
take when you think that Kenton is so unworthy of 
Daphne’s love. And now that I have that promise 
I think I can die satisfied. I have been unhappy 
since she has been growing thinner and paler every 
day. It has made my heart ache to see my little sis- 
ter so unhappy. But now I am happy,” and turn- 
ing his face to the wall, he was again silent. 

Rupert lay with his face to the wall all that night 
and the following day until Kenton came. And 
when he bent over him he whispered, “Rejoice, 
Kenton, for she is yours.” 

Kenton’s heart gave a great bound, and it was 
with an effort that he refrained from giving vent to 
his joy in words. But the pressure he gave Rupert’s 
hand told plainly how thankful he was. 

“Papa,” said Rupert, turning to Lord Ross, “call 
Daphne.” 

Lord Ross gave Lady Ross a look of alarm and 
started from the room. But her ladyship asked him 
to stop a moment and, going to the bedside, she told 
Rupert that if he had anything to say to Daphne 
she would tell her and there would be no need for 
Daphne to come in the room. 

“No, mamma/’ said Rupert, “you have given 
your promise. It cannot be broken. I would much 
rather speak to Daphne myself.” 


254 


the: earl ot rossviiTve: hate, 


Lady Ross bit her lip and turned from the bed, 
while Lord Ross again started for Daphne. 

In a moment more Daphne came into' the room 
and when she perceived Kenton standing there, she 
sprang forward with the glad cry : 

“Oh, Kenton, we’ve met at last! Such a long 
time we’ve been parted. But thank Heaven we 
meet once more, if never again!” Then dropping 
his hand, she turned to Rupert, and as the tears 
rolled down her cheeks, she fell upon her knees by 
his bed. “Now, dear brother, what is it you wish 
to say to me?” 

He took her hand and then that of Kenton, and 
joining them together, he said: “I’ve won papa’s 
consent and mamma’s for you to 1 marry Kenton, 
Daphne. They promised me this because it is prob- 
ably the last thing I shall ever ask of them, for they 
tell me I must die. I wanted to tell you of this my- 
self, for I know you would rather hear that, Daphne, 
than anything else in the world.” 

“Oh! thank Heaven,” she cried. “Rupert, you 
always were a dear, good brother. But do not tell 
me I must lose you. Oh, do not tell me you are 
going to die! I could never live without you, 
Rupert, indeed I could not. You have always been 
the dearest one in all the world to me. And oh, do 
not tell me you must leave me.” 

“You will have Kenton instead of me,” he said, 
“and I will not be missed so much.” 

“But, dear brother,” she said, “I do want you 


TH£ EARIy OF ROSSVIIvIvi: HAIJ, 


255 


both,” and, burying her face in the bed-clothes, she 
wept. 

“Do not weep, Daphne,” Rupert said, sadly, as 
he saw that should he really die, how it would 
trouble his sister. 

“Do not weep,” she repeated. “Oh ! how can you 
ask such a thing of me, Rue, when I must lose my 
only brother,” and raising her head she threw her 
arms about his neck and pressed a kiss on his brow. 

This was done quickly, but there was time enough 
for Rupert to whisper, “Don’t cry so, Daphne. I 
shan’t die, this is some more of my planning to get 
papa’s and mamma’s consent. Hush!” he whis- 
pered, as he saw that she was about to make an out- 
cry. “Don’t give me away.” 

Daphne suddenly stopped weeping and Lady Ross 
said, “I think it time for you to go to your room, 
Daphne.” 

“No, no,” she replied, “I shan’t go to my room 
yet, mamma. I haven’t had a word with Kenton.” 

“Nor do I think you should here at your brother’s 
deathbed.” 

“Very well, mamma. I will go then,” she said, 
“for now you have given your promise and it cannot 
be broken.” 

She then left the room, happier than she had been 
since the day she had promised Kenton to be his 
wife. But she could not exactly understand the 
meaning of Rupert’s words; she only knew he 
would not die, and that she could be with Kenton 


256 THE) E)ART OT ROSSVITIvE) HAL,!, 

once again, and that nothing could come between 
them. 

When the doctor came the following day, Rupert 
was of course just a little better, and continued in 
this way until a week had gone by, and then the old 
doctor told Lord and Lady Ross that he thought 
with careful nursing he would recover. Lady Ross 
was of course overjoyed to hear this. But imagine 
how much she regretted having made, as she termed 
it, “that fatal promise.” And one day about two 
weeks later, when Rupert was so much improved 
that he could sit up, she asked him to release her 
from the promise. But Rupert said, “Mamma, do 
you not remember telling me you would break that 
promise under no circumstances ?” 

“Yes,” she replied. “I know I said that; but I 
think it nothing but right that now you are almost 
well again you should release me.” 

“No,” said Rupert, “I don’t think I shall do this. 
I am just as anxious to see Daphne and Kenton 
marry as I was the night you made the promise, so 
do not ask me again. Deathbed promises are not so 
easily broken.” 

“That was no deathbed,” she persisted. “For you 
did not die after all.” 

“Well,” he replied, “if I had died it would have 
been the same, as far as the promise is concerned. 
And I consider that promise as sacred as though I 
had died, and I shall never release you from it.” 

“So be it, then,” she said, haughtily; “I was 
never known to 1 beg. When Daphne goes to the 


THE) DARI, OD ROSSVIDDD HAIA, 


257 


almshouse you alone will be responsible for it, and 
you can bear the blame.” 

“Well, mamma, I’ll certainly do that very thing. 
I am sure when you see how very happy Daphne 
will be, you will not regret your promise.” 

“I shall regret it to the longest day I live,” she 
said, coldly. “But I hope F 11 never live to see 
Daphne married to' that man.” 

“Why, mamma,” he said, “do not talk like that.” 

“I meant exactly what I said,” she replied, as 
Daphne came in and she arose to leave the room. 

“Sit down, Daphne,” said Rupert, when their 
mother was out of hearing, “and I will tell you how 
I won their consent.” 

She drew a low foot-stool up and sitting down at 
his feet, she leaned her head on his knee and said, 
“Do, please, tell me, Rupert, for Fve wondered so 
much.” 

Then he told her all the story. When he was 
through she laughed a merry, ringing laugh, that 
sounded like old times. 

“Rupert, I declare, you are an enigma ! No one 
but you could have thought of that, and if they had, 
I am sure they could not have carried it out with the 
success you did. And now I must repay you,” and, 
putting her arms about his neck, she whispered, “I’ll 
be a good little sister to Dorothy for that,” and she 
kissed him a dozen times without once stopping for 
breath. 

“There now,” she said, “I think Fve paid you too 
J 7 


258 the: e:art 0^ rossvitte: hau, 

many, and you must give a part of them back 
again.” 

“Well, well, little sister, I think that repaid me 
amply for anything I could have done for you. But 
then, of course, I do not charge you anything, so HI 
give all that back again.” 

“No,” she replied, “just give me part and save the 
others for Dorothy.” 

“Why, Dorothy would not accept them,” he re- 
plied. 

“Oh, but she will when you are married,” 
Daphne replied. 

“HI have another lot on hand by that time, so 
HI give you all them,” and he kissed her in return 
for each time she had kissed him. 

Kenton came pretty soon and as Daphne had not 
seen him since the night Rupert had joined their 
hands, she was overjoyed to see him, and the three 
talked for a long while about how well Rupert's plan 
had succeeded. Then Rupert pretended to get tired 
and went off to rest and to 1 sleep, leaving the lovers 
alone. After Kenton had lingered as long as he 
thought best he took his leave, blessing Rupert Ross 
all the way home, and he told Dorothy, who came to 
the gate to meet him and inquire about Rupert, that 
he was so much improved that she need not be sur- 
prised to see him coming to see them at any time. 
Then he told her what a nice, long talk he had with 
Daphne, and that she — his sister Dorothy — would 
have the best boy in England for her husband. Her 
eyes sparkled brightly at this and she said, “I surely 
ought to be happy with the best husband and the 
best brother in England.” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


The Christmas holidays had come and gone. The 
snows had fallen and melted away, the cold, bleak, 
wintry winds were past. Winter had gone and in 
the place was glad, joyous, beautiful summer. The 
sunlight flashed over the sparkling waters of the 
running brooks and the gleaming Thames. The 
birds sang, the bees murmured to the flowers, the 
wind whispered to the leaves, and all the strange, 
sweet voices of nature seemed to call, “Fresh water 
and green woods, ambrosial sunshine and sunflecked 
shade, chattering brooks and rustling leaves. Glade 
and sward and dell, lichen and cool mosses, feath- 
ered ferns and flowers, green leaves, green leaves — 
Summer ! Summer ! Summer.” 

The glad summer time was here again. But it 
had not brought gladness to the heart of poor, lonely 
little Essie Lorrimer. As she told Dorothy she 
should do, she had at last given up all hopes of ever 
seeing her lover again. And she told Dorothy that 
she would gladly welcome death. And Dorothy 
would reply, “Do not talk so, Essie, I beseech you! 
It troubles me to hear you talk like that.” 

But on this particular night in the latter part of 
June, she said she was sure something dreadful had 
happened to Claude, for it had been three months 
since she heard from him. 

“Oh!” said Dorothy, joyfully, “perhaps he’s com- 
ing home and will not write, so as to take you by 
surprise! Indeed, Essie, I feel just like he’s coming 


26 o 


the: £ARIy OF ROSSVITTF HAIJv 


this very night. It seems that something whispers 
in my ear, ‘Claude is coming home after all these 
years/ ” 

Mrs. Lorrimer was sitting by a table reading, 
Dorothy and Essie were seated in the door, Kenton 
standing by their side. He had a very grave look 
on his handsome face, as he heard his sister talk so 
hopelessly. He, too, joined in with Dorothy, to try 
to cheer her. 

“Yes, Essie, Dorothy is right. I’m sure Claude is 
coming home. Do not give up hopes yet. Hark !” 
he whispered. “Look! There are two men com- 
ing up to the gate.” 

“Oh! it’s Claude. I know it is,” Dorothy ex- 
claimed, breathlessly. 

On the men came until they reached the gate, 
when Essie sprang to her feet. 

“Oh, thank Heaven!” and ran toward the gate, 
followed by Kenton. 

Mrs. Lorrimer stepped to the door just in time to 
hear Essie exclaim, “Oh ! thank God ! It is you, my 
Claude, my wanderer returned!” 

“Yes, my faithful little Essie, it is I.” 

Kenton seized the hand of the other gentleman 
with the glad cry : 

“Welcome, Uncle Roger.” 

They all entered the house and Essie, with tears 
of joy streaming from her eyes, exclaimed, “Oh! 
mamma, he has returned, and my mourning has 
changed to rejoicing.” 

Claude advanced toward Mrs. Lorrimer and gave 


THD DARI, OD ROSSVIDDD HAU, 26 1 

her outstretched hand a vigorous clasp. Then 
Essie led Dorothy up to him and introduced her. 
He clasped her hand in his own and as the tears of 
joy stood in his eyes, he said, “So this is Dorothy, 
of whom you have all been writing in such terms 
of praise/’ 

“Yes,” said Kenton, quickly. “That is the little 
sunbeam that has been the joy and light of this home 
for more than four years.” 

“Thank you for being so kind to my little Essie,” 
he said, bending over her, still holding her hand. 
“You are indeed a sunbeam, and I shall call you 
that.” v - 1 . 4 mi 

He then turned to Essie, who was smiling 
through her tears and, leading her to a sofa, they sat 
down side by side, he holding her hand, each too 
happy for words. 

But in the mean time, Uncle Roger talked enough 
for them all. He had so much to tell, and explained 
why Claude had been gone so long, saving Claude 
the trouble of telling that himself. 

After a while a mischievous look came into 
Dorothy’s eyes and, stealing up to Essie, she pre- 
tended to be whispering, but she was talking loud 
enough for Claude to hear. She asked Essie if she 
remembered what she said she should do when 
Claude came home? But Essie did not remember, 
and Dorothy said, “You said you would talk 
enough for six little girls when Claude came home, 
and here you’ve been sitting these two hours and 
haven’t said six words !” 


262 


the: E)ART OD ROSSVITIvD hatt 


‘‘Looks like she would talk to me, when I’ve been 
gone so long, doesn’t it, little Sunbeam?” Claude 
said. 

Essie turned, and the look she gave Claude plainly 
proved that she spoke the truth when she said, “I’m 
just too happy to talk, Claude. But I want you to 
talk to> me of yourself.” 

He then began to talk in good earnest and when 
Dorothy saw that she had succeeded in getting them 
to talking, she stole away and left them to them- 
selves. 

The hours flew by as if on wings until it was 
long past the hour of midnight, and Mrs. Lorrimer 
said if they did not retire they would not get much 
rest that night. They all declared they were not a 
bit sleepy, but supposed they could be together on 
the morrow, and it would be best to try and get a 
little rest. Essie said she was almost afraid to> go to 
sleep, lest she should awake the next morning and 
find it all a dream. But Claude told her to have no 
such fears, for they were indeed there and they 
should never be parted again. 

It was a long time before Essie closed her eyes in 
sleep, for she could do nothing but think of Claude. 
Sometimes she would fancy it was all a dream, but 
when she thought of the many things which Claude 
had said to her, she knew it was a reality. At last 
she fell asleep and when she awoke the sun was 
shining in through the window and Dorothy was 
whispering in her ear to make haste for Claude had 
been walking the floor for the last half hour trying 


THS DARI, 0D ROSSVIDDD HADD 263 

to be patient until she should come. She said that 
her sympathy was at last aroused and she had come 
to see if Essie did not think it time to be moving? 

“Indeed I do think so,” Essie said, smiling hap- 
pily. “I don’t know why I slept so long.” 

“Why, you did not sleep so long after all,” 
Dorothy replied, “for you know it was long past 
midnight before we retired, and the last I remem- 
ber, you was saying you wasn’t a bit sleepy, and 
didn’t think you could go to sleep.” 

With the aid of Dorothy, Essie was soon dressed 
and looking lovelier than she had looked in the five 
years that Claude had been gone. She wore a blue 
dress, and with her golden hair coiled gracefully at 
the back of her shapely head, and a half open rose- 
bud pinned at her throat, she did indeed look beau- 
tiful. 

“Why, Essie dear,” Claude said as he advanced 
to meet her, “I do really believe you have grown 
lovelier since I have been gone — I did not 
think there was any room for improvement. I don’t 
think I ever saw you looking SO' lovely before.” 

“Do I ?” she said, as she laid her hand on his arm, 
and looking lovingly up in his face, she continued, 
“I am glad I please you, Claude. But, dear, what 
makes you think there was no room for improve- 
ment? I am sure there was and is yet. I want to 
talk of you. You are just as handsome as ever, 
Claude, but there are deep lines on your face. What 
is the cause of that?” 

“Trouble, Essie dear, trouble. I sometimes think 


264 THE) DARI, OT ROSSVIIyI,D HAIJ, 

it strange that my hair is not as white as snow. To 
think I had not seen my little angel in all these 
years ! And when I received Kenton’s letter telling 
me that you were so ill, I think I was on the point 
of going mad. If an earnest prayer ever fell from 
my lips, it was that you might be spared to me. I 
know there is no need to ask you if you love me 
still. I know by those beautiful blue eyes looking 
at me so lovingly that you do.” 

“Love you, Claude,” she said, “I love you just the 
same and always will.” 

“And, Essie,” he replied, “there’s no use to try to 
tell you how dear you are to me. When I was in the 
Indies, I would get so discouraged, when the 
struggles were the hardest, that I would sometimes 
think I would just give up. And then a little girl 
with tearful, pleading, blue eyes and golden hair 
would come before me, and your words would seem 
whispered in my ear, ‘Remember, that far away in 
old England there is a little girl, waiting patiently, 
lovingly, longingly for your return. And though she 
is many miles away, she will always be true,’ and I 
would take courage and work the harder. And 
now, Essie, I have my reward. I have as much 
money as Lord Ross himself, and all we lack is the 
title. You will be a lady at last, Essie, and of course 
the title makes no difference.” 

“I do' not care for the title or the money either,” 
she said. “I care for you, Claude, and now that I 
have you back again I shall be as happy as the years 
are long.” 


THD DARI, OD ROSSVIUvD HA 1,1, 265 

“I am happy now,” he said, smoothing back her 
golden hair from her white brow; “but when we 
are married I shall be almost too happy to live. And, 
Essie, we will have to name another wedding day. 
But we will not say at Christmas this time, for that 
has proved unlucky. Besides, I don't want to wait 
so long. When will you be ready, Essie ?” 

“Any time that pleases you, Claude,” she re- 
plied. 

“Well, right this moment would please me,” he 
said. “But I suppose we can’t be married just now. 
Let me see; this is the twenty-seventh of June. 
Suppose we say the last day in this month. Do you 
think that too early ?” 

“Too early?” she replied. “Well I should say I 
do not. When we’ve been betrothed just six years 
this month, and you’ve been gone over five years. I 
do not think it too early, Claude, and if I did I 
should not say so, for I wish to< please you in all 
things.” 

“Well, my darling,” he said, gently, "you cer- 
tainly have your wish, for you do please me in all 
things.” 

“But, Claude,” she said, “I had not thought be- 
fore, but I don’t really see how I’m to get ready by 
the last day of this month. I Tiaven’t made my wed- 
ding dress.” 

“Why, dearest,” he said, glancing down at the 
dress she wore, “it doesn’t matter about the dress. 
Why, the one you are wearing now looks pretty 
enough.” 


266 


the: e:art of rossvitte: hau, 


“Claude, you naughty boy!” she said, laughing 
gaily. 

“Why, you would look as lovely in a plain blue 
muslin as other people would look in satin and 
diamonds,” he replied. 

“I see you haven’t forgotten how to flatter,” she 
said. “But I shan’t be married in a muslin dress, 
even if you do think it pretty enough,” with a pretty 
little pout. 

“What’s all this talk about a dress?” said Mr. 
Lorrimer, coming to the door. 

“Oh! Uncle Roger, do come here and tell me 
what to do,” exclaimed Essie. “Claude wants to be 
married the last day of the month, and here I haven’t 
even bought my wedding dress, let alone made it. 
I’m sure I can’t get it made in that time. What am 
I to do?” 

“Why, that problem is easily solved, little girl,” 
Uncle Roger said. “Just send me to* London for 
one that’s ready made. I’m sure I can get one to 
suit.” 

“That’s just the idea,” said Claude. “Now, little 
blue eyes, you’ve no excuse, so the last day of June 
it shall be.” 

“Very well, then,” she replied, “anything to please 
the little boy who* has always been in SO' much haste 
to get married.” 

“I think I am a very old little boy — just thirty- 
four, or will be very soon,” he replied, laughing. 
“So you’ll have to marry an old bachelor after all.” 


THE EARE oe rossvieee haee 267 

“Well if he suits me, you must not say anything, 
and I assure you that he does.” 

“Why of course I shan’t say anything,” he re- 
plied. “But here comes our little Sunbeam. I must 
tell her how soon I’m to have a dear little wife. 
Say, Sunbeam, do> we look very much like we are 
going to be married in just three days?” 

“Well, I should say that you do,” Dorothy replied. 
“It would be difficult to tell which of you looks the 
happier.” 

“Our looks do not deceive you,” he replied. “We 
are indeed happy.” 

“You’ll understand it all, Dorothy, just a few 
days before you and Rupert are married,” said 
Essie. 

“What!” said Claude. “You don’t mean to tell 
me our little Sunbeam is engaged?” 

“Why yes,” said Dorothy, quickly, “I am, and to 
the best boy in England. Oh, of course, I mean 
outside of Claude,” as she saw Essie about to speak. 

“May I ask his name?” Claude said, addressing 
Dorothy. 

“Why yes,” she replied. “His name is Rupert 
Ross, the son of the Earl of Rossville Hall, and your 
cousin.” 

“Well, I declare,” he ejaculated. “So I am to 
have a sunbeam for a cousin and an angel for my 
wife. Why who ever heard of such luck befalling 
just such an unworthy fellow! When is this other 
wedding going to take place?” 

“I don’t know,” Dorothy replied, “for we have 


268 


THK KARL OK ROSSVILLK HALL 


never set any time. Rupert is very young yet, so 
am I, and we are in no haste. I guess it won’t be a 
great while.” 

“Well, I know if I were Rupert, it would not be a 
great while,” Claude replied. 

“Now do not say a word,” Dorothy said, play- 
fully. “For just remember what a long time you 
have been betrothed to Essie.” 

“Well now, Sunbeam, you must not blame me 
with that, for I had to go away. But you can bet if 
I had stayed in England, it would not have been so 
long. As Essie was saying, I have always been in 
a hurry to get married, and destiny would not let 
me. But we’ll be married anyway, won’t we, 
sweetheart ?” he said, turning to Essie. 

“Yes,” she replied, “if it is after five years of 
waiting. Now, suppose I had run away with an- 
other fellow while you were gone?” 

“No,” he replied, “I won’t suppose anything of 
the kind. I should have gone stark mad. It is 
enough to know that you did not and would not.” 

“You are right, she would not do that,” said 
Dorothy. “If you could have come upon her some 
time when she was sitting alone, looking east- 
ward, with her eyes dim with tears, you would have 
thought she was going to die of grief, instead of 
running away.” 

“Poor little Essie,” he said, tenderly, “to think I 
was the cause of all that !” 

The tears came to Essie’s eyes as she thought of 
the long, lonely years when Claude was absent. 


THE) E)ARIv OR ROSSVIRRR HAU, 269 

“Now, Essie dear/’ he continued, “you are not 
going to let those beautiful eyes grow dim with 
tears just at the thought of that, are you? Do not 
think of that, dear. Just imagine I have been in 
England all the time.” 

“Oh, dear,” said Dorothy, catching up the corner 
of her apron, “that will never do !” as she wiped the 
tears from Essie’s eyes. “Just let me get those tears 
out of the way so you can see. Now then, look 
down the road, some one is coming.” 

That “some one” proved to be Rupert and 
Daphne. Dorothy bounded down the steps and ran 
to meet them and tell them who was there. When 
they reached the house, Rupert was holding one of 
Dorothy’s hands and one of Daphne’s. 

Daphne could hardly wait until she reached the 
house to see Uncle Roger, but Rupert was more 
anxious to meet Claude. He had always in some 
unaccountable way felt strangely drawn toward this 
unknown cousin. Daphne rushed up to Uncle 
Roger and threw her arms about his neck. 

“Excuse me, Uncle Roger, but I’m so glad to see 
you, I could not help giving you a hug ! Don’t you 
remember that little girl in Spain, who used to call 
you ‘Uncle Roger’? And indeed you do seem just 
like my uncle. And who knows but what you may 
be some day?” she said, glancing at Kenton. “This 
is Daphne, Uncle Roger — Daphne Ross.” 

“Why, is it?” he exclaimed, joyfully. “I’m so 
glad to see you, Daphne. And so you are a young 
lady now ! Why I never would have known you. 


270 THE) EARL, OE ROSSVITTE hate 

And just as pretty as you were when you used to sit 
on my knee and prattle your baby talk! I have 
thought of you many times, and I did not think I 
should ever see you again/’ 

“And I’ve thought of you, Uncle Roger. But I 
have not yet met my cousin,” she said, turning to 
Claude and holding out her hand. 

“Welcome back to England, cousin, and to Ross- 
ville Hall.” 

He returned her salutation and then said to 
Dorothy, “Why, Sunbeam, here is another little girl 
to add to my list of pretty relatives. I declare, I’m 
fortunate.” 

“And so he has given you a new name, Dorothy,” 
said Rupert. “Well, it suits remarkably well, for 
are you not the sunbeam that brightens all the dark 
places in my life?” 

Rupert and Daphne learned of the wedding before 
they started for the Hall, for Essie said that 
Daphne and Dorothy must be her bridesmaids. 

Mr. Lorrimer went to London the following day 
and did not return until it was growing dark. 
Dorothy met him at the gate and knew from the 
mysterious looking bundle he carried that he had 
succeeded in getting a suitable dress. And when 
this bundle was opened, she clapped her hands and 
gave a little cry of delight. 

“My! isn’t that lovely, Essie? Claude will love 
you more than ever when he sees you in your bridal 
dress !” 

“I hope he will,” she replied, blushing, “for I will 
certainly appreciate all his love.” 


CHAPTER XXX 

The last day of June had come, and a lovelier day 
never dawned upon this old earth than this, Essie’s 
wedding day. 

“What a glorious morning!” said Dorothy. “I 
am sure if there’s any truth in the old proverb, Essie, 
yours will be a happy wedded life. I do think this 
is the loveliest day I ever saw. It looks as if nature 
was doing her best to celebrate your wedding day.” 

“It surely looks that way,” Essie replied. “And 
I think I deserve a happy wedded life. I have had 
so many, so very many, disappointments.” 

“They are over now,” said Dorothy. “That is a 
thing of the past, while happiness will be for the 
future. Won’t it, Claude?” she called. 

He went up to them and said, “What is it, Sun- 
beam, that’s for the future ?” 

“Happiness,” she replied. “I have been telling 
Essie how happy she will be. Don’t you think she 
will ?” 

“She will certainly be happy,” he replied, “if it 
lies in my power to make her happy. I should be a 
miserable wretch not to do my best to make her 
happy, after she has waited for me so faithfully — 
five long years.” 

“And I am sure she will be happy,” said Dorothy. 

The wedding was to be a very quiet one and just 
a few of the most intimate friends were to’ be in- 
vited. The bridal couple were to stay with Mrs. 
Lorritner until Claude could build a beautiful home 


272 


THE EARL OE ROSSVILLE HALL 


just a short distance from Rossville Hall. He had 
asked her if she still desired to go> to America on 
their wedding tour, but she replied that she did not, 
that she had much rather stay at home, where they 
could be alone in their new-found happiness. This 
suited Claude exactly, for he, too, preferred the 
quiet and rest of home to' another voyage across the 
stormy waters. So* they decided to spend their 
honeymoon in old England, at her girlhood’s 
home — the home where she had spent so many 
lonely hours, and where she should now spend so 
many happy ones. 

Dressed in her bridal robes a few hours after, she 
looked, as Claude said, just as he imagined the most 
beautiful angel in Heaven looked. She wore a beau- 
tiful white dress of flowing satin, and with pearls 
around the neck, pearls on the white arms and pearls 
in her golden hair, Uncle Roger’s wedding present, 
and a bouquet of bride roses and lilies of the valley 
in her hand, she took her place by the side of him 
whom she had loved so long, her face beaming with 
happiness and a heart bounding high with hopes of 
the future, and he who was to call her wife looked 
down on her with eyes full of love and tender 
meaning. And when the words were spoken which 
made them man and wife, he whispered, “Mine at 
last — after five years.” 

“Yes, Claude, yours at last. Thank Heaven we 
shall be parted no more in this life.” 

They then received the congratulations of their 
friends, and Dorothy was the first to press a kiss on 


TH£ SARI, OS ROSSVISSS HASS 273 

Essie’s brow and wish her all the happiness that she 
so much deserved. 

“What a handsome couple,” said old Mrs. 
Murray, one of the ladies who had witnessed the 
ceremony. “I declare they do> suit each other so 
well. He is handsome with his brown hair and 
dreamy eyes, and she is lovely with her golden hair 
and blue eyes. And then there are the bridesmaids, 
who look almost as lovely as the bride, and those 
handsome young men by their side. I think there 
will be two other weddings before many more days 
go by, if I may take it upon myself to prophesy.” 

And those of whom she was speaking were at 
that moment naming the day — just one year from 
that day — for Rupert and Kenton, who had been 
playmates in childhood, schoolmates in boyhood, 
now that they had reached manhood were to be 
married at the same time. 

That night when the guests were gone, Claude 
and Essie were standing on the porch, gazing at the 
star-lit heavens. Taking her hand he said, as he 
pressed the first kiss on her pure white brow, 
“Essie, I would not be now where I was one year 
ago tonight for all the gold in the Indies! You are 
more precious to me than all else in the world. I 
never tire of telling you of my love, but if I should 
try until doomsday I could never tell you one-half.” 

“And, Claude,” she said, as she smoothed back 
the wavy brown locks from his forehead, “I never 
tire of listening to your love story. I hope you will 
tell it to me every day.” 

18 


274 THB BARI, OB ROSSVILBB HAU, 

“I shall certainly do> that,” he replied. “I used to 
say I could never love any one better than mother 
and dear sister Izetta. But I do. I love you more 
than I ever loved them. And to think you are my 
very own. I don’t see how I lived without you so 
long; I’m sure I could not any more. You shall be 
my guiding angel, Essie, and direct my steps toward 
Heaven, and when I meet my mother and sister 
there, I will tell them it was you who* directed me 
to* Heaven, and when temptations crowded round, 
it was you who brightened the way, and with these 
dear little hands smoothed the lines of care from my 
brow, just as you are doing now. You think you 
are just smoothing back my hair, but you are doing 
more than that, you are smoothing away those deep 
lines of care and anxiety, Essie dear.” 

“I hope I can,” she replied. “And do' you really 
mean to say that it was I who directed your steps 
toward Heaven ?” 

“Yes,” he replied. 

“Oh, I’m so glad, — so very glad to know that I 
was the cause of that.” 

“I could not do a very great wrong,” he said, 
“for your face would come before me, and I am 
sure something would whisper, ‘Don’t do that, 
for there is a little girl who, if she only knew, 
would grieve.’ And, Essie dear, you know I 
would not do a thing to grieve you.” 

“I like to hear you talk like that, Claude, it 
makes me very happy,” she replied. “I am sure 
you are the dearest husband in all the world.” 


TH£ SARIv Ot ROSSVIIyl/^ HAI^Iy 


275 


“That is what I mean to try to be,” he said. 
“For I think such a dear little wife deserves a 
good husband. And God helping me, I will be.” 

“You are already that,” she replied, “so let us 
now talk of something else.” 

“All right then,” he said. “Just to think that 
one week ago, I was on the ocean homeward 
bound. And now I’m safely landed with a bride 
standing at my side !” 

“I think,” he said, slowly, “it was a happy thing 
for Kenton and Dorothy, that I did leave, for by 
my leaving, they have also found a dear one.” 

“Had there been no changes, you would have 
been an artist yet,” said Essie, “and would never 
have been an earl.” 

“And never have met you,” he said, smiling. “I 
think those changes are all right after all, don’t 
you ?” 

“Yes,” she replied, “mamma told me when you 
went away it was all for the best, and if I could 
not see it in that light then, I would some day. I 
think she was right. And then if Lord Ross had 
not come to England, Kenton never would have 

gone/to the town of S . And then perhaps 

Dorothy would never have escaped from that 
dreadful old woman, and perhaps Kenton could 
not have gone to college. So now that we are 
married at last, I suppose it was for the best, after 
all.” 

“Yes, I’m sure it was,” he replied. “ ‘God 
moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to per- 
form.’ ” 


276 the) darIv ot rossviiTvE) hatt 

“How I love you, Claude/’ she whispered. 
“You can always make me so happy. You always 
manage to say just the thing I want to hear 
most.” 

“I know a little girl that I can say the very same 
thing about,” he replied. “I love her with my 
whole heart. I mean to spend the remainder of 
my life in trying to live to please her. Would 
you like to know who this sweet little girl is ? It 
is none other than my little sweetheart, friend, 
and wife, Essie Ross. There, don’t blush so. I 
know you have not become accustomed to that 
name yet, but you may as well, for that is your 
name from this day on. Essie Lorrimer is just 
a dream of the past, and you know we are to live 
in the present. Do you think you would like to 
be Essie Lorrimer again?” 

“No,” she said, “I do not want to be anything 
but just Essie Ross. It seems that the Lorri- 
iners have a passion for the Ross family. Uncle 
Roger loved your mother, Kenton loves Daphne, 
and of course I don’t love you a bit. Then ther^ 
is Dorothy, who is almost one of the family, 
Rupert. It seems that we are all determine 
love none other than a Ross.” 

“Why, I think the Ross family equally in fault,” 
he replied, laughing, “for of course all that love 
from the Lorrimers was solicited by the Rosses.” 

“I do not know,” she said. “I think I should 
have loved you, Claude, had you never loved me.” 

“Now,” he said gaily, “if you had, you would 
never have known it, for you did not know you 


The: E)ARI, OD ROSSVITTD HAIyly 277 

loved me until I gave you the symptoms, and of 
course if I had not told you, you never would 
have known/’ 

“Yes, I think I should,” she replied. “I was 
young then, very young, and I think I should have 
found out for myself before many more years. 
Some people say that the heart’s first love is not 
constant, but I am sure they are wrong, for you 
are my first love, and I have never loved another 
than you. But how long it has been ! When 
you were absent, Claude, Dorothy was the only 
one who ever brought a smile to my face, or a 
playful word to my lips. I think, as I told you, I 
should have died of grief had it not been for dear 
Dorothy. And when I was ill, and thought I 
must die without seeing my darling again, I gave 
her many loving messages to give you when I 
was gone. It makes me sad to think about it all.” 

“Don’t tell me, then,” he said, “if it makes you 
sad, for it makes me sad too, and we should be 
anything but sad on this, our wedding day. 
Wm’t let us think of that.” 

110 ^ do try to not think of it,” she said. “But 
K?irHehow the thoughts of those days will come 
back, and sometimes I can hardly refrain from 
thinking it is all a dream and that you are still in 
the Indies, but then I will look up and see your 
face, I know that you are really here.” 

“Look, Essie,” he said, taking a book from his 
pocket. “Here is that little curl you gave me so 
long ago. It has been to the Indies, but re- 
turned to old England — after five years. I’ve 


278 THE) E)ARIy OF ROSSVITTE) HAU, 

kissed that dear little curl many times and each 
time I looked at this little curl you grew dearer to 
my heart, and had I had the wings of a dove I 
would have flown away to you. I am sure there 
was not a moment, Essie, while I was away, but 
what I was thinking of you, and the promise I 
made long ago, — to return to you come what 
would. For I knew you were grieving your very 
life away, from the mournful tone of your letters. 
And, Essie, you cannot imagine how I felt, when 
I knew I was causing all that grief to come to 
you.” 

“You did not cause it, dear, you could not help 
it any more than I,” she replied. “That was fate, 
inevitable. But destiny has changed its course, 
and now I am happier than I was ever miserable. 
Claude, I don't think there is an angel in Heaven 
more happy than I am.” 

“Or one more beautiful,” he replied. 

“I am not so sure about the beauty,” she said. 
“But oh ! I do know I was never so happy before. 
I wonder if I shall be this happy the remainder of 
my life.” 

“Yes,” he whispered, “if I can make you so, 
and I am sure I shall do my best.” 

“As mamma said,” Essie continued, “the more 
painful the parting, the more blissful the meeting. 
And if this is not bliss, standing by your side look- 
ing up in your handsome face, and knowing that 
I am your wife, then I will say there is no such 
thing as bliss. I wonder what makes me love you 
so, Claude? But I know why. You are worthy 


THIS DARI, OT ROSSVITDD HAIX 279 

of the love of any one; you are loyal and true, 
noble and good, kind to every one, and all that 
heart could wish.” 

“Now, Essie dear,” he replied, “we should 
never use extravagant language, and we should 
worship no living being except God. But on this 
particular occasion, I admit I commit such a sin, 
though if the recording angel sets it down 
against me I believe he will credit me with a par- 
tial justification at least. How could I stand here 
and hear the dearest one on earth to me utter 
such words as those, and not feel an inclination to 
fall down and worship her?” 

“I know it isn't right, dear,” she replied; “but 
I think I have worshipped you all along, Claude, 
and shall continue to, so long as yonder moon 
gives forth her light.” 

And we leave them, hand in hand. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


Another six months had sped away on wings 
of love. Claude had completed his mansion, and 
furnished it in elegant style. The rooms which 
he had set apart for Essie were indeed a perfect 
paradise. Nothing had been left undone, and in 
this beautiful home we now find them, nearer and 
dearer to each other, if that were possible, than 
the day when they were wed. 

Essie flitted about from room to room, always 
doing something for Claude’s comfort, always 
thinking of something to please him. Indeed she 
had succeeded in driving those deep lines of care 
from his brow, and he had the same cheerful smile 
which he wore before he went away. His eyes 
sparkled with love, and he always had a loving 
word for his dear little Essie, who sang and played 
for him while he read as he lounged in an easy chair, 
and listened to the sound of her voice as it fell 
upon his ear like the low cooing of a dove. He 
told her that he feared she would spoil him, but 
she replied that she would not, for when she found 
that he was beginning to get spoiled, she would 
play the idler and have him read to her. 

Dorothy seemed to be almost as joyful as Essie. 
She hardly knew which she liked best, her old 
home or Essie’s new one. So she went from Mrs. 
Eorrimer’s cottage to Essie’s home, then from 
Essie’s home back to Mrs. Eorrimer’s, just the 


TH$ £ARL 0 P ROSSVIIvIyE) HATH, 28 1 

same gay, blithesome Dorothy as of old, and as 
much beloved by every one as ever. 

On Christmas Claude and Essie gave a grand 
ball to which all the gentry in that part of the 
country were invited. At this ball Dorothy 
caused many manly hearts to beat high with 
hope. Every one wished to meet the beautiful 
Miss Donald, but when they learned that she was 
Rupert Ross’s affianced bride, and when they saw 
the many loving glances which she bestowed upon 
him, and how many more waltzes she gave him 
than any one else, their hopes sank. 

“Countless the hearts that were lost that night, 

Lost beyond recall, 

To that fair one, 

Pride of the ball.” 

Daphne also created quite a sensation. Those 
black glossy curls and flashing blue eyes played 
havoc with many hearts of the opposite sex. But 
she cared not for this. Looking gloriously beau- 
tiful, in a pale blue silk and a ruby necklace about 
her white throat, and bracelets of the same on 
her wrists, she lingered by the side of Kenton 
Lorrimer and would talk with no one else, neither 
would she dance. 

“Why won’t you dance, Daphne ?” Kenton 
asked. 

“Why, because I don’t want to,” she replied. “I 
never do anything here of late that I don’t want to 
do, and that is the reason I do not dance. I had 
rather be with the one I love.” 


28 2 


TH£ SARI, OS ROSSVISSS HASS 


“But some of those young men are looking dag- 
gers at me/’ he replied. 

“Let them look,” she said. “Their looks don’t 
bother me in the least. If they do not stop their 
gazing, though, I mean to tell them I shall take 
you in another room and charge a shilling admis- 
sion for a look at you.” 

“I am not the one they are looking at so much, 
after all,” he replied, laughing. “It is you they 
gaze at most. But when they do look at me, it is 
with a glance of hatred.” 

“Let them hate,” she replied. “The more they 
hate, the more I love you. But I mean to have 
some fun out of those staring young men, Kenton. 
I am going to see what loving looks I can give 
you, and talk like a chatterbox, just to see them 
open their eyes with astonishment,” and, giving 
Kenton a very loving look, she stole her hand in 
his and began to whisper something in his ear. 
This proved too much for the other young men, 
who turned away with something that sounded 
very much like a groan. Daphne laughed merrily 
at this. 

“Oh, yes, Kenton, my plan was a success. I 
don’t think they will be stupid enough to stare at 
us any more this evening.” 

The ball lasted until the “wee,” small hours of 
morning, then the guests took their leave. 

* * * * 

About a week after the ball, the whole country 
was shocked with the horrible news that Lord 
Ross was dying. While out riding on horseback, 


the: eari, of rossviixF hatt 283 

the animal became frightened, and plunging sud- 
denly forward, Lord Ross was thrown against a 
tree, breaking the spine in two places, and in- 
juring him internally. The horse ran on, never 
once stopping until he reached the Hall. Every 
one at the Hall was frightened almost to death, 
at sight of the horse coming home riderless* 
Two of the servants started immediately in the di- 
rection from which the horse had come, to search 
for the Earl. However, some one else was there 
before them. 

It was not a great distance from the home of 
Claude Ross, between there and Mrs. Lorrimer’s, 
and Kenton, who was on his way home from a 
visit to Claude and Essie, first met the horse and 
knew it to be the property of Lord Ross. He 
was unable to stop him, and fearing that some ac- 
cident had befallen the rider, he quickened his 
steps and soon came upon Lord Ross, lying pale 
and still upon the ground. 

The first thing that entered Kenton’s mind was 
the horrible thought that he was dead. But then 
a low moan came from the sufferer’s lips, and 
Kenton knew that he was living, but he thought 
that death was very near. It did not take him 
long to make up his mind. Help must be found 
at once. He was on the point of going back for 
Claude when he saw the two* servants coming 
from the Hall. He told one of them to return at 
once for a carriage, and to break the news as 
gently as possible to Lady Ross, and to despatch 
another servant for the doctor. 


284 TH£ SARIv of rossviixe hau. 

The man soon returned with the carriage, and 
with the news that Lady Ross, on hearing of the 
accident which had befallen Lord Ross, and who 
for a long while had been troubled with heart-dis- 
ease, had been struck down with that horrible dis- 
ease, and they feared for her life. 

“God, have mercy !” Kenton murmured. “Poor 
little Daphne !” 

They lifted Lord Ross in gently and drove 
slowly to the Hall. Daphne was watching for 
them with tear-dimmed eyes, going first to her 
mother’s bedside, and then back to look down 
the road for her father, wringing her hands in 
awful agony. 

They carried Lord Ross in and laid him on the 
bed, then the doctor examined his injury and said 
aside to Kenton, “He can never recover, he will 
not see the sun rise tomorrow morning.” 
Daphne overheard this and moaned, 

“Oh ! Heaven help me. My dear father going to 
die. Let me die too, oh ! let me die too.” 

“No, no, Daphne,” said Kenton, going to her 
side, “you must live for my sake. Please do not 
say that any more, it troubles me.” 

“I will not, Kenton,” she replied. “But how 
am I to bear this? Mamma lying almost at the 
point of death, and papa dying. Oh! it is more 
than I can bear.” 

But Kenton soothed her with tender words as 
they stood by the Earl’s bedside. 

Rupert could not bear to stand calmly by and 
watch his father breathe his last, but stood alone 


THE EART oe rossvieeE hate 285 

at the window, with the heavy curtains drawn 
around him, and his lips firmly pressed together. 
But never a tear came to his eyes — his was a sor- 
row too deep for tears. Lord Ross moaned feebly, 
then, opening his eyes, he beckoned Kenton and 
Daphne to come closer. And when they were 
nearer he asked, “Where is Marie? Is she not 
coming to bid me a last farewell ?” 

“She is very ill,” Kenton replied, “and cannot 
leave her bed.” 

Lord Ross slowly closed his eyes, and then in a 
few moments more he opened them again and 
said, “Where is Rupert?” 

Rupert came forward as he heard his father ask 
for him, and knelt down by his bed. “What is it 
father, that you would have me do?” 

“It is this. I know I must die, my son; my 
time is short and very precious. And ere I go, 
I would ask of you a promise. Daphne will have 
no father to guide her now, for I will soon be 
gone, and you must promise to be a father to her, 
as well as a brother. Don’t, Daphne,” he said, as 
she again burst into tears. “Don’t weep for me, 
for my death will bring happiness to other hearts.” 

But none understood his meaning, save Rupert. 

“My son,” the Earl continued, “watch over 
your sister with tender care, and keep her feet 
from the paths that lead astray. You will not 
have this to do long, for she will soon have 
another to lead her through this life, one as noble 
and good as ever breathed the breath of life, one 
I have known since you were all children together, 


286 


the: E)ARL OL ROSSVILLE) HALL 


and his deeds have all been good. Care for your 
mother, Rupert, for she is growing old, and will 
not be long in joining me. Try to comfort her, 
Rupert, and bless her old age. Would that I 
could see Marie once more in life, that she could 
press her lips to my brow once again, before I 
pass through the dark valley of death.” 

“I will go for mamma,” Rupert said. “You 
shall see her once again, though I have to carry 
her in my arms.” And leaving the room he went 
to' the bedside of Lady Ross. Before he could 
speak she asked, 

“How is your father, Rupert?” 

“Mamma,” Rupert replied, “I have come to 
carry you to papa. He is dying, mother, and does 
so want to see you once again. He has been 
calling for you. I will carry you in my arms, 
mamma, if you will only go.” 

“No, Rupert,” she said, “perhaps the Almighty 
will give me strength to reach him.” 

Slowly she rose from her bed, and leaning heav- 
ily on Rupert, she murmured, “O Heaven, help 
me! I’m going to bid Adrian a last farewell. But 
thanks be to God, I shall soon join him, and will 
not be left alone in this world. For my children 
have both learned to love some one else more than 
me.” 

Rupert made no reply to this, and they reached 
the bed where Lord Ross lay, and, kneeling down 
by his side, Lady Ross threw her arms about his 
neck and wept. 

“Don't weep, Marie,” said Lord Ross. 


the: SARIv O T ROSSVIIvIvE: HAI.Iv 287 

“No,” she said as she ceased to weep, “why 
should I weep, for will I not soon join you? But 
can it be, Adrian, that you are going first, — going 
first and leave me all alone, in this cold, cruel 
world, with no one to love me.” 

“I must go, Marie,” he replied, “but you will 
have Rupert and Daphne left to love you.” 

“No,” she replied, “no, they do not love me. 
Their hearts are bound up in that Lorrimer family, 
and I will be left alone. No,” she continued, 
“I will not, Adrian. I will go with you. Fan me, 
Rupert, I can hardly breathe. Farewell, Adrian,” 
she said, as she pressed a kiss on his brow, and fell 
back in Rupert’s arms. 

He bore her to her room, and again despatched 
a servant for the doctor. Kenton then came to 
Rupert’s side and said, “Lord Ross wishes to see 
you once again. Death is rapidly approaching, it 
cannot be a great while.” 

“Kneel down,” said Lord Ross, as they again 
came to his side. 

Down they knelt, the three side by side, and 
with his hands on their heads, he in turn gave each 
of them his blessing. Rupert first, then Daphne, 
and then Kenton. 

“May God deal with you, as. you deal with my 
child,” he said to Kenton. “Promise me that 
you will be.khtd to her.” 

“I do most solemnly promise,” Kenton replied. 

“Then I can die in peace,” he said. “The room 
is growing dark and cold, my life is almost run. 
God bless you, my three children, and bring us all 


288 


TH£ SARI, OS ROSSVIUvS HASS 


together once again. The pain is over now, the 
river is almost crossed, I have seen through the 
vale clear across to the banks of the beautiful 
stream. There I will wander and patiently wait 
to meet you all once more. Farewell, my chil- 
dren, farewell !” 

Daphne pressed a kiss on his cold, clammy fore- 
head. Even as she did this the spirit departed and 
he was dead. 

“Gone,” said Daphne. “Oh! he is gone, and I 
have no father now.” Silently they left the room. 

While the body of Lord Ross was being prepared 
for burial, Daphne and Rupert went to the room of 
Lady Ross, while Kenton went home to tell the 
news. 

Lady Ross knew by the look they wore when 
they came in the room that Lord Ross was dead. 
But she said, “Rupert, am I left alone at last, 
when I thought I should be the first to go?” 

Daphne knelt beside her bed and said, “Yes, 
mamma, he is dead.” 

This was too much for the weak action of her 
heart, and falling back on her pillow, she began to 
gasp for breath. “Oh ! Rupert,” said Daphne, 
springing up, “I have killed her, I have killed my 
mother.” 

“No, you did not, Daphne,” he replied. “Don't 
think you caused her death. I knew from the first 
she would not recover.” 

“Oh ! Rupert,” Daphne cried, “we have no father 
now, and will soon have no mother !” 


TH£ SARI, OS ROSSVIIAvE HALS 289 

Only once more did Lady Ross gasp for breath, 
then she closed her eyes and all was over. % 

“Even now she has gone, Rupert/' she said. 
“Oh ! Rupert, you and Kenton are all that are left 
me now." 

He led her gently from the room and tried to 
comfort her, as best he could, but his own heart was 
troubled too much to comfort another. 

“Just to think, Rupert," Daphne said, “father 
and mother are both dead, and we are poor orphans 
left alone." 

Kenton returned in a short time, accompanied by 
Dorothy, and, putting her arms about Daphne's 
neck, she begged of her to dry her tears, speaking 
such words of comfort and cheer that presently she 
ceased weeping, and was listening intently to what 
Dorothy was saying. 

* * * * 

What means this gloomy silence around the Hall, 
the hushed voices and soft footsteps? What mean 
these tears and sad faces, the sound of weeping and 
mourning, the closed shutters and darkened rooms? 

These are the questions which would have been 
asked, and the answer would have been, The angel 
of death has entered this home and taken two of the 
inmates thereof. 

It was morning again, and sitting by Daphne on 
the sofa, Rupert held her hand in his own, while 
Dorothy on the other side continued to whisper in 
her ear, so as to take her mind off her great bereave- 
ment. And that evening Lord and Lady Ross 


290 the: sari, os rossvii,i,S haix 

were laid side by side in their last resting place. 
Together they journeyed through life and together 
they crossed the dark valley of death. 

On the following day the will was read bequeath- 
ing the earldom to Claude Ross. Great was the 
surprise of every one at this, as the reader will re- 
member Rupert had it kept a profound secret. 

Claude did not want to take the earldom, for, as 
he told Rupert, he had no need of it now, as he was 
wealthy and, besides this, it looked like robbing 
Rupert of his just rights. 

“But I do not want the title/’ said Rupert. “It 
was I who persuaded papa to make this will leaving 
the earldom to* you.” 

Claude told him it was not right, that he appre- 
ciated his generosity but he should not accept the 
earldom. Rupert argued every side of the question 
with him. But still he answered no, kindly but 
firmly. 

Then as a last resource, Rupert told Claude if he 
did not take up the title it should be dropped, for he 
had said since he was a small boy he should never 
be an earl and that he meant to keep his word.” 

“What!” said Claude, in astonishment. “Let 
that old and honored title drop? Why, it is one of 
the oldest names in England !” 

“I cannot help that,” Rupert replied. “But I 
will never be an earl, and if you do not accept this 
offer the title will most certainly be dropped. Now 
answer me once for all, Cousin Claude, will you 
accept this old and honored title and keep up the 


THE} EART OF ROSSVITTE: HAIylv 


291 


name, or will you refuse and let the title drop, and 
go down with the years, forsaken and forgotten ?” 

“I cannot bear to think of that, Rupert, so I sup- 
pose I must accept.” 

Then the thought came to' him that Essie would 
yet be Countess of Rossville, and he was glad that 
he did accept the earldom. And Rupert was glad 
too, for now he was free to do as he liked, and would 
not be compelled to wait for form or ceremony. He 
asked Dorothy what she thought of this, and if she 
would rather have been Lady Ross than just Mrs. 
Rupert Ross, and if she thought he did wrong in the 
way he had done. 

“Why, no, Rupert/’ she replied. “You did one 
of the noblest deeds ever done, for was not Claude 
once an earl, and had the misfortune to lose it all, 
and you know he is glad to have it back again. 
Then you did not want it, neither did I. Why, do 
you know, Rupert, that the thought never once en- 
tered my mind that I should ever be a countess, not 
once. I was going to marry you for yourself, not 
to become Countess of Rossville. I am gladder to 
see Essie a countess than I should be if I were one 
myself.” 

“I am glad you think like that, Dorothy,” he re- 
plied, “for I want to please you in all things.” 

So the news that Claude was to be Earl again was 
received with gladness on all sides. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


What is the meaning of all this stir and bustle 
around the Hall? Servants here, servants there, 
some trying to do everything, and at the same time 
doing nothing; others trying to do nothing, and 
having everything to do; bevies of girls scattered 
about on the lawn ; young men standing in groups, 
laughing, talking and smoking; altogether a differ^ 
ent picture from the one which we last drew of the 
Hall. Time had passed on and things had changed 
greatly. 

But our question has not yet been answered. 
What is the meaning of all this ? 

The meaning? Why, a double wedding is the 
meaning. Rupert and Dorothy's, Kenton and 
Daphne's wedding day was almost here. On the 
morrow the vows would be spoken for better or for 
worse. Grand preparations were going on at the 
Hall; guests had been invited from far and near; 
girls whom Daphne had met in France; young men 
whom Rupert and Kenton met at college. A large 
band had been engaged to furnish music for the 
guests, and the young people were enjoying it all. 
They were a gay group indeed, all the time happy, 
all the time gay, all the time trying to tease Dorothy 
and Daphne; but with little success, for they were 
not easily teased. 

Six months had passed since the death of Lord 
and Lady Ross, and as the young people had set the 
day for the wedding, we remember, on Essie's wed- 


THE) E)ART OF ROSSVITTE) HAU, 


293 


ding day, they would not postpone the wedding 
another day longer. Rupert and Kenton told Dor- 
othy and Daphne they thought they had waited long 
enough. And they agreed with them. Claude in- 
sisted that they should be married at the Hall. 

The past six months had been passed by Rupert 
and Daphne, part of the time with Essie and Claude 
and part of the time with Mrs. Lorrimer, as they had 
no other relatives except Claude; and they had 
almost forgotten their sorrow in their great hap- 
piness. But never a day went by that Dorothy and 
Daphne did not put fresh flowers on the graves o-f 
Lord and Lady Ross, showing that if they had 
overcome their sorrow, the dear ones were not for- 
gotten. 

Poor, unfortunate Lady Ross, she realized her 
wish, that she might die before she saw Daphne the 
wife of Kenton Lorrimer. 

The wedding costumes arrived from Paris, 
exactly alike in every way, and beautiful enough for 
a queen. The girls told Dorothy and Daphne they 
envied them their handsome lovers, and they 
laughed and replied that they were glad they were 
so soon to be married, lest they should take them 
from them. But the girls replied that they did not 
think that could be done, as Kenton and Rupert 
never saw any one else when Dorothy and Daphne 
were near. 

The morning broke bright and clear, as did that 
day one year ago. And as Dorothy and Daphne 


294 TH£ £ARI, OS ROSSVISIvS HASS 

took their places by the side of their handsome lov- 
ers, it would have been difficult to tell which of the 
brides was the more lovely. Daphne, with her raven 
black hair and dark blue eyes, so tall and graceful, 
looked like a beautiful statue, and Dorothy, with her 
wavy brown hair, and expressive gray eyes, clinging 
half timidly, half fearlessly to Rupert's arm, looked 
almost childish yet very beautiful. They stepped 
out upon the floor, Rupert and Dorothy in front, 
while Kenton and Daphne brought up the rear, and 
the words were soon spoken which made them man 
and wife. 

The evening soon arrived, the ball began, and 
they danced until the sun began to' cast his rays on 
the following morning. Part of the guests left the 
Hall that day, while the remainder were to stay for 
a few days longer. 

Happy is the wedding where true love reigns, 
and, as they gaze at each other with eyes full of love, 
we can tell at a glance how much each of them is 
beloved. What would this life be without the 
blessed boon of love? It is the true happiness of 
this life. There is a vacant spot in every heart that 
has never experienced this wonderful, over-power- 
ing passion called love; without it our lives would 
not be worth the living. It helps us to reach higher 
ideals, and enables us to occupy a higher sphere in 
the world. Come with me and gaze on this picture, 
of an old man lying on his deathbed. A man who 
has scoffed at love, and termed it nonsense. He ia 
dying now, alone, with no loving woman to cheer 


THE) E)ART OF ROSSVIUyE) HAIT, 295 

his last moments, no woman’s tender voice to fall 
upon his ear like low mournful music, no loving 
hand to smooth his ruffled pillow, no sweet lips to 
press the last kiss on his death-damped brow. He 
has wandered aimlessly about from place to place, 
from day to day, wretched all his life, and now 
wretched at the last moment. Miserable is the one 
who knows not true love, but happy is he who 
knows thereof. 

Uncle Roger watched all this merriment at the 
Hall with a self-satisfied air, and then a cloud came 
to his brow, and he murmured to himself, “All of 
them wealthy except Kenton, and it shall not be so. 
He shall not be left out, for I am an old man and 
have no need for all this money which I possess, and 
if Kenton will give me a home with him the re- 
mainder of my days, which I am sure will be few, 
I’ll give him all my fortune. Claude has his for- 
tune which he made in the Indies, with the title of 
an earl besides. Rupert has the fortune his father 
left him, while Kenton has, you might say, nothing, 
and it shall not be so.” 

He was so intent upon his thoughts that he said 
the last aloud, and Daphne, who happened to be 
passing at that moment, said, “What shall not be 
so? Uncle Roger, were you speaking to me?” 

“No, child,” he replied. “I was not speaking to 
you, but was thinking of something that concerns 
you. But I shall not tell you now, but will in a 
short time.” 


296 TH£ SARI, OS ROSSVIUvS HASS 

“Was it something good, Uncle dear?” she said 
as she pressed a kiss on his care-worn brow. 

“Yes,” he replied, “it was something good. 
Don't let it trouble you, lassie, for it was something 
very good.” 

“Well, Uncle Roger, it will not trouble me then,” 
she said, and, laughing, continued, “I used to call 
you Uncle Roger, long ago*, when I had no claim on 
you save that of love, but now just to think you are 
really my uncle! What would you have thought 
when first we met, if you had known that one day 
you would really be my uncle?” 

“Why, I would have thought how proud I should 
be,” he replied, “to be your uncle, for I am sure you 
are worthy to call any one uncle.” 

Kenton then came up to them, for wherever 
Daphne went, there went Kenton. Turning to him. 
Daphne put her arms about his neck. 

“Uncle Roger and I were just talking about how 
queer it was that I should call him Uncle Roger 
when I first met him, and then really have him for 
an uncle after all.” 

“I'm very glad it turned out like that,” Kenton 
replied. “I am sure I am. I suppose that accounts 
for Uncle Roger's being so fond of you when he 
first met you. But come along, Daphne — let us go 
for a walk ; the sun is almost sinking, the walks are 
cool and shady. Just the time for a delightful little 
walk.” 

“Yes, take her off,” said Uncle Roger, laughing. 
“You selfish boy, to think no one wants to say a 
word to her but you.” 


the; e art oe rossviIvIve; hau. 


297 


“Why of course I know no one wants to- talk with 
her as much as I do, so there’s the reason I’m 
selfish,” he replied. 

“We won’t be gone long, Uncle Roger,” said 
Daphne, “and then I’ll devote the remainder of the 
evening to you.” 

As they walked away ’neath the cool shade of the 
magnolia trees, so will they walk down the path of 
life together; and as they walked on through the 
trees, they came upon Rupert and Dorothy seated on 
a rustic bench, her head pillowed upon his breast, 
with the tender love-light shining from their eyes. 
On they walked until they came to a small running 
brook, and as its mossy banks were never disturbed 
they presented the appearance of a soft velvety 
ridge, where each spring the starry dandelion and 
the blue-eyed violet grew. Across this brook a 
small foot bridge had been built, which was latticed, 
and overgrown by luxuriant grape vines. To this 
bridge they walked and watched the sun as he shed 
his last rays on the earth in honor of the dying day. 

Here they lay plans for the future, and here we 
will leave them and in another chapter find them 
happy in their own home. 


CHAPTER XXXIII* 

In the now thriving little town of Rossville may- 
be seen the splendid new bank of that place, and 
over it hangs a sign on which you may read, “Ross 
and Lorrimer, Bankers/’ Rupert had at last his 
heart’s greatest desire; he and Kenton had gone 
into business as partners and had gained a lasting 
reputation as highly respectable and reliable busi- 
ness men. 

In the suburbs of Rossville, among some tall old 
trees, may be seen a picturesque vine-covered man- 
sion almost hidden among the trees, with beautiful 
flowers of every shade around. And this mansion, 
overhung with the wreathing honeysuckle and the 
twining jessamine vines, where the first summer 
flowers bloom and the songbirds are caroling all the 
day long, was the home of Rupert Ross. Just down 
the street is another mansion almost like the one 
described, and this was Kenton Lorrimer’s home, 
where Uncle Roger sat in an easy chair and blessed 
the day he gave his nephew his fortune and came to 
live with him. 

Mrs. Lorrimer, now a snowy-haired lady, lived 
at the Hall, happy in the thought that Essie was 
once more happy. And Essie, Countess of Rossville, 
played with the cooing baby, who had been named 
for both Uncle Roger and Claude, and the latter 
thought there was only just one baby in the world, 
and that, of course, was little Roger Claude, and 
Claude was always trying to trace some resemblance 


THS E)ARIv OF ROSSVIIvIvI) HAIJ, 299 

between this wonderful little heir and Essie. And 
she in turn said he favored Claude. But Mrs. Lorri- 
mer laughed and told them he was not like either of 
them, but the very image of Uncle Roger. 

“I hope he will make as good and noble a man as 
Uncle Roger/’ Claude would say, and Essie would 
answer, “If he looks like Uncle Roger, and is as 
noble and good as his father, he will indeed be a 
great man some day. And I mean to teach him to 
be like you both.” 

Ben Thomas escaped from the officers of the law 
in London after having shot one of them for trying 
to prevent his escape, and returned to the town of 

S in a furious rage over losing Dorothy, and 

Mrs. Miller, thinking the officers who had come 
with Rupert and Kenton had rescued Dorothy, be- 
gan to beg of him to forgive her, as the policeman 
had made her tell. This was a mystery to Thomas, 
who forced her to tell all she knew. He then 
thought that perhaps the old man who rescued 
Dorothy was one of the men whom Mrs. Miller had 
told of his whereabouts, and was so angry that be- 
fore he was aware of what he was doing, he pulled 
a revolver from his pocket and shot the old woman 
dead. He then left the country and was gone for 
two years. Then, thinking that possibly he could 
return without being molested, he returned to- Lon- 
don, where he began to practice his infamous plots 
again. But the detectives were still on the lookout 
for him, and one day he was walking in one of the 
out-of-way streets when a pistol was thrown in his 


300 


THE) £ART OF ROSSVIIvLF HAUv 


face and a voice said, “Halt !” Quick as thought his 
hand sought his pocket. The officer knew what his 
purpose was and, determined that he should not 
escape a second time, he fired and the scoundrel fell 
to the ground. 

For eight weeks he lingered between life and 
death, but with careful nursing he recovered, was 
brought to trial and sentenced for life in the peni- 
tentiary. Rather than live his life out in confine- 
ment, his hand again sought the deadly weapon, and 
placing it against his heart, fired, and fell dead in 
the court-room. Thus ended the life of one of the 
most wicked and vile men of the world, who after 
living a life of every wickedness, and not satisfied 
with having taken two other lives, then took his 
own, and went to stand before the great Judge of 
All as a self-murderer. 

Olivia Merryington, whom the reader will re- 
member, succeeded in entrapping Sir Reginald 
Stockwell in an engagement, and was married in the 
following October after we last saw them. Sir Regi- 
nald was not nearly so wealthy as she thought, and 
only married her for her money. The reader can 
imagine what the result was — a life of wretched 
poverty. Having squandered all Olivia’s money at 
the gaming table, he was then compelled to go> to 
work on a farm. And Olivia’s fate was even worse 
than that of her sister, Gertrude, who, after having 
lost Lord Ross, never found that perfect man for 
whom she was looking. As Olivia advised her to 
do, she retired from society, and is an ugly, 
cross, peevish, veritable old maid, living a life of 


THE E ARE OE ROSSVIEEE HATE 301 

misery and pining, because she did not accept the 
one offer which was made to her when she was a 
young girl, years before Lord Ross came to Eng- 
land. Gertrude vexed Olivia greatly by calling 
her a rustic farmer’s wife, while she, Gertrude, still 
lived in peace and plenty neath her father’s roof. 
She may have spoken the truth regarding “plenty,” 
but as for “peace,” she has but little, for each time 
she sees Essie — Lady Ross — she presses her lips to- 
gether tightly and clenches her little fist as she 
thinks (we say she thinks, for of course no one else 
would think anything so absurd), that had it not 
been for that girl, she herself would have been 
Countess of Rossville, and she mutters between her 
teeth, “The little wretch! How I hate her! And 
poor Lord Ross, I do feel sorry for him. I’m sure 
he regrets his choice. But then, maybe, she won’t 
live always, and then I’ll yet be Lady Ross.” 

But the object of her hatred smiles sweetly as 
she passes, and bows a pleasant “Good evening,” 
looking as if — could happiness cause life — she 
would live forever. 

“Curse her!” the black-eyed Gertrude mutters as 
the carriage goes by. “I’d murder her if I thought 
I could without detection. I am sure Lord Ross 
would be glad, I am sure he has tired of her ere 
this.” 

But very differently would she have thought 
could she have seen Lord Ross when Essie 
reached the Hall. Folding her to his bosom, he 
murmured passionate words of love in her ear, 
telling her how precious she is to him. Mrs. Lor- 


302 THE) SARI, OS ROSSVISSS HAIJ, 

rimer, from her window, saw this, and murmured 
to herself, “Such happiness ! Such undying love ! 
It reminds me of the days when I was young and 
had a loving husband. Would that he could see 
how happy his children are today. But then,” 
she thought, as she smoothed back her snow 
white hair, “I am growing old and soon we'll meet 
never to part. Then I'll tell him all, tell him how 
happy I was in my old age, though so much hap- 
pier it would have been could he have stayed with 
me to see Essie and Kenton happily settled down in 
life. Who would have thought it that Kenton would 
have married the daughter of an earl and that 
Essie would have been a countess ? I surely ought 
to be happy when I know that my children are. 
But I was beginning to think dear Essie would 
never be happy again; but, thank Heaven! she is, 
after five years.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


We will now take one more look at our princi- 
pal actors, and then bid them a last farewell. 

It is May again, the month of all others when 
nature seems most grand. Rupert and Kenton 
are to take a day off from the bank and, as they 
wish to spend this day pleasantly, they decide to 
go out to the Hall and spend it with Claude and 
Essie, for they know if pleasure is to be found it is 
at the Hall, where cheerfulness and hospitality 
reign. 

The day is spent in merrymaking and gladness, 
laughing and talking of olden times. 

“Do you remember what you said, Kenton, one 
day long ago?” Essie asked. 

“Why, Essie, I said so many things long ago, it 
would be difficult to remember all I have said. 
What was it?” 

“Why, it was something regarding the person 
you meant to marry,” she replied. “You said if 
you should ever take it in your head to marry, 
you would choose a girl with golden hair and blue 
eyes ; and look at Daphne,” she said as she 
laughed merrily, “she looks like that, doesn’t she, 
with her black glossy hair !” 

Kenton looked a little puzzled and then replied, 
“Well, I declare, Essie, I do remember saying that, 
but I had not seen Daphne then. That is the only 
plea I have to make. But at least she has the blue 
eyes, and of course I think black hair is the pret- 


304 THE) 3ARI, Otf ROSSVILL^ HAW, 

tiest now. And then, when I look at those golden 
curls of yours, I become puzzled, for then I can’t 
really tell which is the prettiest. I’ll just ask Ru- 
pert, he could always think of just the right 
thing.” 

And Rupert replied, as he glanced lovingly at 
Dorothy’s wavy brown hair, “Why, brown is pret- 
tier than black or golden either. But the color of 
the hair makes no difference, for wouldn’t I love 
Dorothy just the same if her hair was as white as 
snow?” 

So they laugh and jest all day, making it a day 
to be long remembered by all. 

That evening they go over to Mrs. Lorrimer’s 
little cottage. No one is living there now, but 
the place is as lovely as ever, the flowers bloom, 
the birds sing their same glad songs, and after 
gathering some flowers to carry away with them 
as mementoes of their old home, they all return to 
the Hall. 

Mrs. Lorrimer lingers until last, and says it 
seems like home yet. Claude reminds Essie of 
the day he first came to see Kenton, and she re- 
plies, “How odd that I should have gone to the 
Hall that day, and you a perfect stranger ! But I 
was so alarmed lest Kenton should die I hardly 
knew where I was going. Little did I think that 
day that I would one day be your wife.” 

“Destiny sent you there, Essie,” he replied; “it 
was your destiny to one day be Countess of Ross- 
ville. Had you never come to the Hall, I think 
we would have met in some other way. I once 


THE) E)ARIy OT ROSSVIIJvE) HAIAv 


305 


gave up hopes of ever seeing you a countess, but 
as I said a moment ago, destiny came in and made 
me a lord and you a lady, and what a dear little 
countess you are.” 

Another little fairy has come to bless Claude 
and Essie's union, since we last visited the Hall, in 
the form of a little girl with golden hair and blue 
eyes. Claude says he is sure this one is like Essie, 
but Uncle Roger gazes at her with tear-dimmed 
eyes as he says to Claude, “The very image of 
your mother, Claude — my golden-haired Lorraine. 
She brings back to memory things of long ago, 
and her name must be Lorraine.” And Essie, who 
still loves Dorothy as much as ever, says she must 
be named for her too. So they call her Dorothy 
Lorraine. 

On the day of which I am writing, after their 
visit to their old home, Claude and Essie talk of 
the past until they reach the Hall, where they all 
assemble on the lawn, all except Mrs. Lorrimer 
and Uncle Roger. The former sits by her window, 
watching the happy group on the lawn. Her visit 
to her old home has brought back the thoughts of 
other days, while Uncle Roger sits in an easy chair 
with the little golden-haired Lorraine on one knee 
and on the other knee sits the little Roger, who is 
now a bright, interesting child almost three years 
old. More than four years have passed since the 
grand double wedding at the Hall, and still the 
people love to talk of the two handsome young 
men and lovely young women who were the chief 
actors in that double wedding. 


306 the eare oe rossvieeE hate 

Five years have passed since that memorable 
last day of June when Essie became the wife of 
Claude Ross, and happy have those years been. 
Essie says she does not see how so much happi- 
ness could be crowded in five short years. 

See the difference ! When Claude was absent 
she termed the years long and lonely, even end- 
less, now they are not long enough. She is reap- 
ing her reward for being so patient, to wait so 
quietly those five long years for her lover’s return. 
Daphne and Dorothy, it will be remembered, all had 
their troubles, but through it all they remained 
true to their lovers. They also have their reward. 

After shadows came the sunshine, after sorrow 
came the gladness, after parting came the meet- 
ing — after five years. 






























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